


Summer of (Hobo) Love

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the summer of 2000. Buffy has won concert tickets and a hotel stay for six in a contest, but they need to get to Los Angeles. Oh, hey, Spike has a car! Also, there are hobos.</p><p> This is a shameless crackfic. There will be bad language, sexual situations, iffy character development, and decapitations. Also many references to songs by the B-52’s. Here’s a Spotify playlist: </p><p>http://open.spotify.com/user/12180930371/playlist/0zCn0skDlEQq0qu2x8UgwS</p><p> Response to Puddinhead’s “Hobo Love” challenge on Elysian Fields. You can search for it if you want to be spoiled (though honestly, it doesn't spoil much) but I will post the challenge details in the final author’s notes, along with all my other notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Debbie

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to The Moonmoth for her fine beta work!

When Debbie had been seven or maybe eight, she had dressed as a hobo for Halloween. Her mom had given her some of her dad’s old clothes – a plaid shirt left over from the seventies, some tweedy pants his big belly had outgrown, all pulled out of the back of the closet – and tied a big polka-dot bandanna to the end of a stick with a throw pillow stuffed inside to make it puffy, and rubbed black eyeshadow on her lip and chin to give her a cute little five o’clock shadow, and topped it all off with a battered fedora. Debbie had gone on the streets and begged from house to house, greeted with wide smiles and pats on the head and bowls brimful of candy, and then she had gone home and eaten peanut butter kisses and Snickers bars (after her mom had checked all the wrappers for tampering) until she got incredibly sick, and then washed off the fake-dirt and went to sleep in her cozy bed. Little seven-year-old hobo-Debbie had been plump and sassy and safe.

Twenty-one-year-old hobo-Debbie was hungry and tired and planning on sleeping out in the open air, and she had decided that being a hobo sucked.

It was all her boyfriend Dennis’s fault. When he and Debbie had been casually flunking out of Berkeley, he had talked for hours about how a life riding the rails was the purest form of environmentalism – how they could work in the fields, giving back to the planet, hitching rides on trains so they wouldn’t leave a carbon footprint of their own, breathing in the fresh open air… Well Debbie had had enough of the goddamn open air by now. It wasn’t even all that fresh.

Since February – when Berkeley had given them the heave-ho – they had been traveling up and down the California coast with other migrant farm workers – most of whom Debbie couldn’t even speak to, because they spoke Spanish and the full extent of her current foreign language skills was saying “Excuse me, sir, where is the church?” in Italian – staying in dingy camps that cost almost all the money they made in the fields, which was by the way the hardest damn work she had ever done in her life; she was sore and sunburned every night, and as far as she was concerned now, the planet could suck it.

So now they were in Los Angeles, broke and hungry and between jobs – neither of them was at all capable of the construction work that most of their fellow migrants used to fill in the time between planting and harvest; Debbie had been a graphic design major, while Dennis had studied political science, and was weedy to boot – and because of all of that Debbie was digging through a goddamn trash can on one of the public beaches, hoping to find something to eat that wasn’t completely disgusting.

Damnit damnit damnit. In the morning, she was going to call her mom collect, and hope like hell she would accept the charges and then find some way to get her home. She would happily put up with her mom’s lectures and pay back all the student loans and crap, as long as she could do it from a nice normal job. Like McDonald’s. She bet you could even eat some of the leftover food at the end of the day, which, at the moment, sounded FANTASTIC. Even if all they had left were Filet O’ Fish.

Oooh, hey, Snickers bar! 

Debbie turned her body so Dennis couldn’t see her eating the candy bar, because he so didn’t deserve the chocolatey goodness. Well, chocolatey mediocrity, because it had a bunch of sand on it – she brushed it off as best she could, but still got a bit of grit in her teeth – but anyhow everything was Dennis’s fault. As soon as her mom wired her the money for a ticket home, she was going to dump his stupid hippie ass. He could go join a fucking commune, where there would be lots of other blowhards to whine bitterly to about the violence inherent in the System and all that crap. Debbie had decided she LOVED the System. The System had FOOD.

She was so done with Dennis.

“Hey Debbie! Come check this out!”

Debbie licked her fingers hastily and then wiped them on her grimy jeans (which had once been super expensive and fashionable, before she had started working in the fucking dirt) before turning to face Dennis. He was a little ways down the beach, peering under a huge barnacled dock. She rolled her eyes and trotted over to see what he thought was cool. Probably a fucking seashell in the shape of Karl Marx.

GOD she was done with him.

When she reached the dock, Dennis had already gone underneath and was poking at a huge boulder, just a few feet shy of the water. Debbie sighed and ducked under the dock with him. “You want to show me a rock?”

“I’ve never seen a rock like this!” Dennis gushed. “Look at the striations, and the color!”

Holy crap. It was NIGHT. There was a nice moon out, almost full, but for chrissake everything looked the same goddamn color. Especially under the dock. “It’s great, Dennis. Did you find us a safe place to sleep?”

“No, not yet.” Dennis poked at the rock again. “This is so cool.”

“Yep. Cool.” God, he didn’t even have a good vocabulary. Everything was ‘cool.’ Debbie looked back over her shoulder. “Look, Dennis, there’s a whole bunch more exciting filth to sort through, so can we…” Her voice trailed off as the rock MOVED.

Dennis’s eyes were wide with wonder as the rock shifted and creaked and loomed over him. “Oh, COOL!” he breathed.

“Oh god, that’s not a rock!” Debbie said, starting to back away.

“No!” Dennis was reverent in the shadow of the not-rock. “It’s a…”

His voice was cut off abruptly. Or rather, his head was. The voice was just an added bonus.

Debbie started to scream and tried to run, but the sand was soft and she was weak with hunger – the Snickers bar hadn’t had time to kick in – and, well, she never really had a chance.

The incoming tide washed away the blood in a matter of minutes, and the bodies and severed heads were gone even sooner, and when the festival staff came by early in the morning to start setting up for the concert, the beach was beautiful and pristine.

It was another perfect day in L.A.


	2. Chapter 1: Party Out of Bounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to The Moonmoth for betaing!

When Buffy had first received the letter, she had stared at it for a full ten minutes before actually comprehending what it said, because it couldn’t possibly be true. But she read it again and again, and then had her mom read it, and then had Willow read it, and they all agreed that there was only one possible way to interpret it, and then Buffy had gone online and done some research to make sure it was an actual legitimate thing and not some creepy scam, and then she had had Willow go online to REALLY make sure it was an actual legitimate thing and not some creepy scam, and in the end it turned out that the answers were yes (it was legitimate) and no (it was not a creepy scam), and so Buffy had had to admit that it was a real thing.

And wow, what a thing!

Willow and Xander and Buffy were sitting at the Espresso Pump drinking iced coffee and taking turns reading the letter, because it still seemed too good to be true.

“So.” It was Xander’s turn to bask in the lettery goodness, and he felt the strange urge to put it into words, as if someone besides Buffy and Willow and himself needed to know what was going on. “You won six tickets to a midnight beach concert this Saturday in L.A.”

“Yep!” Buffy slurped at her coffee. “Front-row seats to see the B-52’s and the Go-Go’s.”

“And you’re sure they’re all still alive. That this isn’t some weird demonic cover band thing, trying to lure the slayer in to a trap.”

“It’s legit,” Willow smiled. “I hacked into the website to make sure it wasn’t a cover for something icky. It’s a real concert, by the real groups.” She frowned. “Though they aren’t all still alive. There’s been some tragic attrition.”

They all raised their plastic cups of caffeine high in memory of music warriors lost.

“Okay then.” Xander nodded in acceptance. “And along with the tickets you get three rooms for three nights at a nearby beach hotel, with continental breakfasts, meal certificates good at a variety of tasty restaurant chains, and on top of that, right before the concert we get to go on a special boat bistro for a fancy meal with other VIP guests.”

“Apparently so.” Buffy tried to tug the letter out of his hands, because it was so her turn for basking. “It was the grand prize at UC Sunnydale’s end-of-year carnival.”

“Wow.” Xander finally released the letter, which was starting to get a little wrinkled from the tug-of-war. “So, I assume from the fact that Willow and I are sitting here that you wish to include us in the festivities.”

Buffy nodded. “And Anya and Tara, of course.”

“And then Riley makes six.” Xander heaved his thank-god-there’ll-be-another-guy-there sigh.

“Um, yeah. About that.” Buffy’s voice was small.

Xander groaned. “Aw, man, Buffy! Did you challenge him to arm wrestling again? Because I told you, no matter how much you can kick a man’s ass, you need to at least let him have the illusion of superior biceps…”

“No, of course not!” Buffy sighed sheepishly. “He’s in Central America. It turns out that when you enlist in the U.S. military and go through Special Forces training, you don’t get to just walk away before your tour of duty is up, even if your mission ends up turning into a crazy demon massacre. It was the rainforest or military prison. Or running to Canada, I guess, but… Well. They speak French and stuff.”

“But he’s still your boyfriend, right?” Xander looked panicked.

“Ummm…” Buffy suddenly found the framed picture of cappuccino art on the wall to be riveting.

“Buffy!”

“Look, there was a thing, okay? A. Thing. I don’t want to talk about it.” Buffy gave Willow a quick look that told her she really, really wanted to talk about it, just not where Xander could hear. Willow gave her a look of complete understanding, because that meant it was about sex but not about penises, which was totally her area of expertise now.

Xander slammed his fist down on the table – lightly, because the Espresso Pump, like most Sunnydale establishments, had a ‘you-break-it-you-bought-it’ policy for everything on the premises, because nobody could afford Sunnydale insurance rates. “Dammit. He was going to teach me how to tip a cow.”

Buffy smiled weakly in apology.

“So who’s our lucky number six, then?” Willow piped up.

“I’m going to say it’s whoever’s willing to drive us to L.A. on Friday,” Buffy shrugged. “So, who do we know who has a car?”

“Well, the Xandermobile is in the shop,” Xander said ruefully. “It was leaking more fluids than my Uncle Rory.”

“I don’t have a car,” Willow said sadly. “Neither does Tara.”

“I asked Mom if she would loan me hers, but she kinda turned a funny color and choked. And then she laughed for a really long time. Then when she finally stopped laughing she said she needed it to get to work.” Buffy sighed. “Do we know anyone else?”

The three of them pondered their tragically-limited social circle, none of them willing to answer that question out loud.

“Giles has a car…” Xander finally volunteered reluctantly.

“Yes. Yes he does,” Buffy confirmed, just as reluctantly.

Willow nodded in glum agreement.

They all stared at their drinks.

Finally Buffy sighed. “So is anyone in favor of spending two hours crammed into Giles’s tiny car while he drives, and then after that, trying to enjoy a beach concert with him?”

“Four hours,” Willow corrected. “His car won’t go above forty-five. Or he won’t go above forty-five. One of the two.”

“You know I like and admire Giles,” Xander hedged. “For a man in his – what, fifties? – he’s pretty cool. When he’s not lecturing us.”

“Or talking about how terrible music is nowadays.” Willow was trying so very hard to sound positive, but it just wasn’t happening. “Or, conversely, spending so much time explaining music that we end up hating it just on principle.”

“Or driving.” Buffy buried her face in her hands. “No, we can’t ask Giles. That would be… ugh.”

They shuddered in unison, as if they had all simultaneously gazed into the abyss, and it had gazed right back, darkly cleaning its glasses.

“So!” Xander’s voice was too bright, a little bit broken. “Who else do we know that A, has a car, and B, might be convinced to drive us to Los Angeles on less than twenty-four hours’ notice.”

Willow looked thoughtful. “You know, Spike has a car. Remember, he drove us to the factory in it that time he kidnapped us?”

“I, uh, don’t actually remember that because he had, you know, bashed me over the head and knocked me unconscious,” Xander said nervously. “But even so, I must respond to what you are subtly suggesting with a very reasonable HELL NO! Even leaving aside the whole head-bashing, kidnapping, ruining-our-love-lives issue, have you forgotten that he completely stabbed us in the back just a month ago?”

“No, of course not!” Willow reassured him. “It’s just, well, car. And our only other option is Giles.”

That silenced Xander immediately, because even he had to admit that driving to L.A. with a treacherous, obnoxious, evil vampire was still loads better than driving to L.A. with Giles. Xander’s last car trip with Giles had given him deep insight into the writings of Lovecraft and those really depressing Russian novelists. Like if good old H.P. had written Dostoevsky fanfiction about a Citroën. And that had only been a ‘five-minute donut run.’ Which had taken twenty minutes and left Xander with a pathological fear of Led Zeppelin.

“We could take the bus,” Xander finally said. “Or the train.”

Buffy shuddered. “I took the train last time. It smelled like rancid tamales and I got gum on my favorite skirt. I would tell you about my bus trip, but I try not to think about it. Ever.”

Xander’s eyes bugged out in desperation. “Yeah, but isn’t that what being young is all about? Wacky Greyhound adventures and getting food poisoning from train station vending machines and moving toilets that you can’t sit down on and the race to get a cab in L.A. before you get mugged?”

Buffy and Willow looked at him silently.

“Maybe it’s a guy thing,” Xander admitted with a shrug.

“So, Spike.” Buffy rolled her eyes. “I guess I can come up with some way to convince him. Like telling him this is payback for the whole Adam thing.” She gave the chocolate pastries at the counter a longing look, suddenly in the mood for a little comfort food. “Or maybe punching him in the nose.”

“Ooh, tell him we’ll all chip in for gas!” Willow suggested. “That usually helps.”

“Yeah, not to mention, continental breakfast!” Xander said with a forced smile.

“And the boat bistro!” Willow gave Buffy an encouraging grin.

Xander looked terrified again. “Wait, he’s going to come to ALL the stuff with us? Like, he gets to be a VIP too?”

“I should probably keep him where I can watch him the whole time,” Buffy grumbled. “Otherwise he might take off for parts unknown and leave us stranded. Or order tons of room service and clean out the honor bar and stick us with the bill. Or both.”

Having heard Giles bitch about how much liquor Spike had scammed off of him, this thought – along with other awful ideas of just what Spike might do in the hotel in their absence – immediately had them all on board the supervising-Spike wagon.

“I can’t believe we are seriously considering going on a road trip with Spike.” Xander groused.

“You and me both,” Buffy agreed. “But apparently, it’s what we need to do in order to get to this concert.”

“I dunno, feels like a setup to me.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Oh sure, like there’s some mysterious godlike being who just wants to get us all to L.A. in the dumbest way possible.”

They all laughed at that, because of course it was ridiculous, but their laughter quickly faded into chagrin, because actually, that explanation made a lot of sense. Way too much sense.

\---

Buffy ended up buying a chocolate croissant to eat along the way, because she was so going to earn it, talking to Spike.

It wasn’t fair. Willow and Xander got to go invite their sweet baboos along on a romantic weekend getaway, while here she was, trudging through a cemetery, to share her invitation with a vile undead betrayer. And she was the one who won the getaway in the first place! She took a moment to send vengeful thoughts in the general direction of Central America, because it was totally all Riley’s fault that her honey wasn’t in town, and also that her honey was now her ex-honey, and also that he was a big selfish jerk who didn’t care about what Buffy needed, not at all, and now she kind of wished he was back in town just so she could invite Spike on the romantic weekend getaway, maybe with an ad in the newspaper, and rub Riley’s stupid Iowa face in it.

Now that she was alone with Mary Johnson (1912 – 1983: Beloved Mother) and Marcos de la Paz (1925 – 1993: Rest in Peace) and Consuela Vazquez (1938 – 1979: In God’s Hands) and all her other gravestone friends, she had to admit to herself that at least half of her reluctance was because of the dreams.

When Riley had been in town, she had been able to brush off the dreams because, well, Spike was around all the time being a big pain in her ass, and Riley was around all the time being her lover, and she knew that was how dreams worked sometimes, taking bits and pieces of one’s daily lives and mashing them together. Like Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. So it was totally reasonable that she would occasionally have dreams in which Spike got all mixed up with the lover bit. Brains just did that sometimes. Right?

The problem was that now Riley was gone. He had been gone for weeks. Which meant no tender chocolatey loving for her brain to mash together with Spike’s Peanut Butter of Evil. So the dreams by rights should have stopped, or at least dream-Spike should be getting smushed together with something she was actually doing, like watching MTV, or painting her nails. Instead, they had escalated, until some nights she had two or three Spike-and-sex-tasting-great-together dreams, and while she could tell they weren’t Slayer dreams, because she could tell what was going on (WHOA could she tell!) and she wasn’t silly enough to think her dreams were telling her she was actually in love with Spike, they were still planting all sorts of visions in her head that kept popping up at the most inopportune times. Like all the time. It was gross. Not a tasty chocolate-and-peanut-butter partnership at all.

She kept reminding herself of that fact as she approached Spike’s crypt.

Not. Tasty. At. All.

\---

Spike startled awake to the sound of his crypt door slamming open and rolled automatically off the side of the sarcophagus he had been sleeping on, snatching up his crossbow. When he realized it was still daylight outside, though, he relaxed. Of all the beings that wanted him dead, or at least more dead, only one liked frolicking about in the sunshine. He rose to his feet, uncoiling dramatically, and faced her across the dusty crypt.

“Slayer!” he hissed in his best Big-Bad voice.

Buffy looked at him for the barest moment, then rolled her eyes as she looked around the crypt. “Geez, Spike. Did you break in and steal the whole candles section of Pier One?”

Spike had in fact broken in and stolen the whole candles section of Pier One, but she didn’t need to know that. “Well, well, well,” he said ironically. “To what do I owe the honor of this invasion? Are we writing a piece on home décor among the fashionably undead?”

“Oh, like this is a home.” Buffy curled her lip at the battered easy chair, facing an ancient television set with a huge rabbit-ear antenna.

“It bloody well is,” Spike retorted indignantly. “I sleep here, I eat here, I read here, and I watch my telly here. Got a fridge, even.”

Buffy traced a hand over the back of the chair, distracted. “You read?”

“Course I read! Important to keep up with the latest trends in evil, isn’t it?” Spike casually tossed his blanket aside to cover the romance novels piled next to his makeshift bed. “Not that I follow the trends, mind you. I’m an original. Just good to know what’s what, so I can stay one step ahead. On the bleeding edge, so to speak.”

“Ew, Spike.” Buffy flopped down in his easy chair. “Anyhow I have a prop… a proposal for you.”

Spike pulled out a cigarette and seated himself on his sarcophagus, glaring at her sardonically. “Ah. Here to proposition me, then.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I am all ears.”

Buffy crossed her legs, kicking her foot nervously. “I hear you have a car.”

“Might.” Spike lit up, sending his first exhalation straight towards Buffy.

“I need to get to Los Angeles.”

Spike choked on his inhalation. “To visit the Great Forehead? Bugger that!”

“It’s not to visit Angel,” Buffy frowned, as if she was surprised at the suggestion. “It’s for a concert.” She kicked her foot a bit more. “And, um, it’s not just me. All the Scoobies.”

Spike considered pointing out the fact that Giles had a car, but like the Scoobies, he had actually ridden in a car driven by Giles, and preferred not to think about the experience if he could help it. “A concert, eh? When did the New Kids get back together, then?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “God, credit me with SOME taste now that I’m eighteen. No, it’s the B-52’s and the Go-Go’s. I won tickets to a midnight beach concert. Hotel and food, too. Oh, and backstage passes.”

Spike heaved himself off the sarcophagus, sauntering over to look in his fridge. “Huh. And what’s in it for me?” He let his cigarette dangle from his mouth as he rummaged.

“Well, like I said, concert, hotel, and there’s food. I know you don’t have to eat, but you like to, right? I have coupons for T.G.I. Fridays and Outback and a couple of other places, and then before the concert there’s a fancy dinner on a boat.”

Spike took a big swig out of a mason jar of blood. “And you’re willing to share all that with me? I’m touched, truly.”

Buffy glared at him. “We decided that it was safer not to leave you alone.”

Spike screwed the lid back on the jar. “Don’t trust me, do you?”

“Not as far as I can throw you. And hey! I happen to know just how far that is!”

“Well, good on you. If you trusted me, I’d have to dust myself from the shame of it all.”

Buffy fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Oh, goodie. Now I know how to kill you without breaking a nail.”

Spike looked at her steadily, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. “Got some conditions,” he said finally.

“I may see my way to finding them acceptable. Go ahead.”

“One, no changing your mind and denying me the creature comforts. I get the bed, I get the food, I get the concert, the backstage, I get it all.”

Buffy shrugged. “That’s the plan.”

“Two, no kick-the-Spike. I’m doing you a favor, I get to not be punched for the duration.”

Buffy pouted. “Not even a little punch?”

Spike went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Three, petrol. You and your prancing Scoobies pay.”

“That was actually also the plan. We’re not horrible, unlike some people I could mention who happen to be in this room.”

“Four…” Spike couldn’t think of a four. Oh, wait. He grinned. “You have to ask me NICELY.”

Buffy looked up at him in disbelief. “I am asking you nicely.”

“More nicely.” Spike strolled over to her, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and leaning in. “Say please.”

Buffy looked up at him for a long moment, eyes wide, then swallowed, eyes narrowing in anger. She twisted her mouth into a sickly sweet smile. “Please, Spike,” she said in a sugary tone. “Please, won’t you take us to Los Angeles in your stupid black car?” She widened her eyes. “Pretty please with sugar on it?”

Spike soaked it all in, the irritation and the aspartame sweetness and the underlying concession of victory, and walked away. “Fine, Slayer. You’ve got your ride.”

Buffy stood up – it took a bit of a heave to escape the clutches of the too-soft chair. “Do we have to wait until sunset to leave? We want to get there in time for dinner before we check in.”

Spike shrugged, not looking at Buffy. “Can start earlier. My car’s sunproofed.”

“Good. So, uh, five o’clock tomorrow?” Buffy’s voice had a hint of incredulity, as if she hadn’t expected things to go this way. Spike smiled inwardly. Good to know he could still keep her on her toes.

“Yeah, sure,” he said unconcernedly, moving a couple of his candles around.

“Okay then.” He could hear Buffy shifting from foot to foot. “See you tomorrow then.” There was a long pause. “Thanks,” Buffy finally said, grudgingly.

“Oh, it is entirely my pleasure, Slayer,” Spike said ironically.

She left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Spike waited until Buffy’s footsteps had faded before shoving aside the stone slab that served to hide his downstairs bunker, being sure to replace the slab so that if she came back to insult him some more, or maybe get in one last punch before their agreement took effect, she wouldn’t be able to follow him. Some secrets were meant to remain secret. They were too dark, too deep to be shared.

It took a little while flipping through his vinyl collection before he found what he wanted, but there it finally was, sandwiched between The Breakfast Club and The Wiz. Reverently sliding the cardboard sleeve from its place, he ran a tender hand over the pastel peach and blue, the matching towels, the ironic facial masques.

His first press of Beauty and the Beat was still in pristine condition, just the way it had been when he had bought it in 1981. The Go-Go’s triumphant double-platinum debut. One of the cornerstone albums of American new wave.

He was bloody well going to get the bugger signed. At long last.

 

End Chapter 1


	3. Chapter 2: Devil in My Car

Buffy was the first to arrive at Spike’s crypt; she came about an hour early, and looked disappointed when she saw Spike was already up and about, like she had planned on waking him up with a little pre-truce violence. Which, truth be told, Spike wouldn’t have minded too much – getting beat up by Buffy was the closest thing he’d had to shagging since he’d gotten rid of Harmony – but pissing Buffy off in general was also good entertainment, and he intended to get a lot of mileage out of her no-kicking-the-Spike promise. If he was lucky, the slayer would be irritated enough to off herself by the end of the weekend, saving him the (literal) headache.

Buffy tried to cover her disappointment with snark. “Must be nice to get to sleep in all day, no obligations.”

Spike shrugged dismissively. “Yeah, well, don’t nobody bring me no bad news.” He glanced at her sidelong, waiting for her acknowledgement.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“You know. When I wake up in the afternoon. Which it pleases me to do.” Buffy’s face was still blank, and he gave up. Fucking modern teenagers and their complete ignorance of the classics of popular culture. She probably hadn’t ever seen _Rock and Rule_ either. Philistine.

So Spike made a show of his last-minute packing, asking Buffy which of two identical black t-shirts she preferred (and then when she finally chose, tossing her choice in the corner and packing the one she had rejected), ostentatiously dropping a pair of handcuffs in the top of his worn duffel (formerly military, but once he had sucked its former owner dry he had defaced the canvas with Sharpied anarchy symbols and obscenities), and chain-smoking until the crypt was hazy and Buffy was glaring at him through watery eyes. As he had expected, she was too stubborn to give in to his obvious baiting, and that made it more fun. And dangerous, of course, but that just gave it a little added zest of fear. He liked that.

By the time Willow and her bird showed up a little before five, though, Spike was running out of ways to be annoying, so he allowed the witches to prop the door open to let fresh air in while he went about the more boring bits of packing. (He had done the _really_ important packing the night before, tenderly wrapping his precious LP in bubble wrap looted from the post office and tucking clothing around it to protect it on their journey.) Willow and Buffy and Tara ended up huddled in a corner near the door, excited faces and furtive glances at him indicating that they were having some sort of Girl Talk. Dull, dull, dull.

He was mourning the demise of his box of cassette tapes – Harmony had burned them once, when she’d got her knickers twisted about him using her for sex (which he had indeed been doing; he’d admitted it on multiple occasions, and in fact had started their ‘relationship’ with the compelling pickup line “Hey baby, want me to use you for sex?” so he didn’t know why she was all bent out of shape over it) – when Xander finally showed up with his demon-girl and a cooler.

Spike promptly pulled his three-day supply of bagged blood out of his mini-fridge and dropped it in the top of the cooler. “Car’s in a shed about a hundred yards north. I’ll have to run to open it up, but you can start moving the luggage in that general direction.”

“Hey!” Xander protested loudly, scooping the blood bags out with a grimace. “That’s my cooler!”

“Yeah, and I’m the driver,” Spike replied shortly. “If my dinner doesn’t go, none of us go.”

Xander looked at his armload of blood bags in consternation. “I don’t want blood on my string cheese.”

“Bags are sealed, you wanker.” Spike took one of the bags and tossed it in the air, catching it and shaking it about. “Your dairy products are safe as houses.”

Xander was obviously seriously nauseated by the very thought of the blood bags being in his precious cooler, and Spike was always down for a row, so they argued back and forth for a few minutes more before Xander finally consented to tuck the blood bags all the way at the bottom, under the ice, so he wouldn’t have to look at them. In the abrupt silence that followed their agreement, Buffy’s voice suddenly rang loud and clear as she ranted to Willow and Tara.

“…So I said, I’ve given you like _fifty_ blowjobs since we started dating, is it too much to ask for you to go down on me just once? So I can at least see what all the fuss is about? And he’s all, oh, that’s different, you’re all wet and squishy and I don’t think I’d like the taste, and that got me _really_ mad and I’m like, what do you think _your_ junk tastes like, Godiva truffles? Plus, I have heard rumors of these things called orgasms, and you’d think after dating for so many months he’d put a little effort into at least _trying_ to get me there. And then when I mentioned that he got all defensive, like he was some sex god, and said if I wasn’t getting off it was my fault for not being more interested in sex – that’s what he said! That I wasn’t interested in sex! And I’m like, if I have to put any more effort into seducing you I might as well stand on a street corner in thigh-high vinyl boots, and then he got all high-and-mighty about how he thought I was a lady, and I’m like, _duh_ , I’m a lady, but ladies like to get theirs too, or at least they would if they ever got any, and then I told him he should just go on his stupid mission and not come back ever, because I deserve a guy who’s willing to get up close and personal with my hoo-hah and maybe let me be on top for once, because...” Buffy’s voice trailed off as she slowly realized that the loud male argument had ended and everyone was watching her. “Oh.” She bounced to her feet, face bright red and determinedly cheerful. “Hi Xander! Hi Anya! Ready to go?”

Xander made a funny noise in the back of his throat, giving Spike a desperate I’m-surrounded-by-crazy-women look, and abruptly picked up the cooler and carried it outside. (Spike shrugged; he liked being surrounded by crazy women.)

Anya looked sympathetically at Buffy. “If you wanted oral sex, you really should have snatched up Xander when you had the chance.” She smiled cheerily. “He does this thing, I keep trying to see what it is but, you know, it’s a very difficult angle to watch from, and…”

“Anya, can you help me with Buffy’s luggage?” Willow interrupted hastily, though as the two girls headed out the door, Spike could hear her whispering, “Don’t rub it in that she’s the only girl here not getting tongue action on a nightly basis. She’s depressed enough as it is…”

“You can’t have Xander!” Anya tossed over her shoulder.

Tara settled for giving Buffy a comforting hug, and lugged a few more bags outside. Which left Spike and a very embarrassed slayer.

He strolled up to her, nonchalant. “Slayer, think you can get my bag? I’ll lead the way to where the car’s parked, but need my hands to cover up.” He nodded at the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in the open door.

Buffy flickered a humiliated glance at him. “Yeah, whatever.”

Spike leaned in close, right up to her ear. “Don’t fret, Slayer,” he murmured. “I’m sure your sweet little ‘hoo-hah’ tastes absolutely delicious.”

And with her gasp of outrage (and did he detect a hint of arousal? Interesting!) echoing pleasantly in his ears, Spike yanked his duster over his head and made a break for the car.

But as he ran, he wondered. Just a bit. Because now that he had the image in his head, it didn’t want to go away. Curiosity had always been his downfall. Well, one of his downfalls, after impatience and recklessness and hunger for danger and a fanatical devotion to the pope – no, wait, not that last one. (He might be evil, but he wasn’t _Catholic_.) And the curious part of him wouldn’t stop wondering just what Buffy _did_ taste like. He suspected she tasted like heaven.

He would just have to try and get a sample.

\---

Buffy had to continually remind herself of just how soul-suckingly awful taking Giles along on the road trip would have been, because Spike was driving her crazy, and he hadn’t even gotten behind the wheel yet.

The car was not what she had expected, but as she looked at it in the shadows of the Restfield storage shed, she realized it was exactly what she _should_ have expected. It was as big as a whale, black and dented, with a tacky white stripe running the whole length of the side, angled up to the fins. _Fins_. Of course Spike would own a car with fins. It actually looked a lot like that car in _Grease_ , the one that they fixed up to be Greased Lightning in that incredibly dirty song that they had edited out for television. (Buffy’s first watch of the unedited movie had been enlightening, and fairly traumatic.) Except that this car was definitely pre-musical-number-repair-montage.  No lightning whatsoever.

“Are you sure this car can make it to Los Angeles?” Buffy said in disbelief as she dumped Spike’s stupid bag against the shed wall. God, it sucked to need Spike. For anything. Last night’s dreams had been twice as explicit as usual, and now Spike was saying naughty (evil!) things to her, and certain sadly-neglected parts of her were apparently desperate enough to get all excited by that. Stupid vampire.

Spike puffed up, obviously offended. “You can walk if you prefer, missy. The DeSoto Fireflite is one of the finest vehicles ever to come from the Chrysler Corporation.” He ran a loving hand along the fins, on his way to pop the trunk. “Hello, baby,” he purred, caressing the taillights. Buffy’s stupid brain imagined him caressing her chassis instead, and the thought made her quiver with what she assured herself was disgust.

“Ugh. Spike, if you’re going to have sex with your car, can you just, well, _not_?”

Spike gave her an assessing look. “Someone has a dirty mind,” he sing-songed, lips quirking in a sly smile. He stepped back from the open trunk. “Load up, kiddies.” He brushed past Buffy to get his duffel bag, handling it with surprising care as he tucked it in.

Buffy pouted a bit, because she so did not have a dirty mind. She was imagining only clean things. Like Spike washing his stupid car. Naked. With lots of bubbles.

The trunk had plenty of room for all their stuff, which was pretty impressive, but when they turned their attention to the seating arrangements, conflict immediately broke out. The car was certainly big enough to easily seat six on its vinyl bench seats, but Xander wanted to sit with Anya, and Anya wanted to sit with Xander, and Willow wanted to sit with Tara, but not next to Anya, and Tara probably wanted to sit with Willow but she wasn’t contributing to the argument, and nobody wanted to sit next to Spike. They didn’t say this, of course, because nobody wanted to jeopardize the ride, framing the argument over which couple got to sit together in the back seat, but every proposed seating arrangement put Buffy squarely in the middle of the front seat, a buffer between the rest of the Scoobies and Spike, and she couldn’t very well argue with that, no matter how much she wanted to, because that was kind of her job. Even if the thought of being pressed up against Spike for a two-hour car trip was disturbing in all sorts of ways she was absolutely not going to mention.

Finally Buffy sighed. “How about all four of you sit in the back and I’ll ride shotgun? You can probably squish in.”

They were all set to do that, when Spike (who had been leaning up against the wall smoking and enjoying the chaos) pointed out, “Where’s the cooler going to fit? Can’t have it up front, it’ll get in my way.” And the argument broke out again.

Finally, they agreed that the cooler would go right in the middle of the back seat, where everyone could access it, and Anya would sit on Xander’s lap on one side, and Willow would sit on Tara’s lap on the other side, and Buffy would ride shotgun. Which actually made everyone pretty happy, and it was kind of sad that it had taken them twenty minutes of figuring to get to it.

The interior of Spike’s car was grungy, faded greyish vinyl with insets of patterned fabric, the nap worn away to baldness in spots. The insides of all the windows had been unevenly spray-painted to block the sun; the windshield had a sheet of brown paper duct-taped to it, with a tiny rectangular hole that Buffy assumed was for Spike to see out of. While the happy couples got all snuggly in the backseat, Buffy slid into the front. The dashboard was in surprisingly good condition – most dashboards in sunny SoCal were cracked from constant sunlight, so Buffy guessed it was because of Spike’s makeshift sunproofing – but at some point Spike had cut out what she assumed had been the factory-installed radio and shoved in a slightly-less-ancient-than-the-car stereo with a tapedeck. The ridged ceiling was dotted with tiny burn marks from cigarette ash, and the whole interior smelled vaguely of smoke and booze. She debated for a bit whether putting her purse on the middle seat would be a good idea – she didn’t put it past Spike to steal her cash – but finally settled it on her lap, flipping down the center armrest and turning to fasten the seatbelt.

Which wasn’t there.

“Spike, don’t tell me this car is older than seatbelts.”

He slid easily behind the wheel, glancing over disinterestedly. “No, just took it out. Dru didn’t like it. Said it was a snake, planned to betray her someday.” He turned on the car; it sprang to life surprisingly easily. The radio came on with some loud shouty music; Spike started to rock his head along with the beat, leaning over and digging some goggles out of the glove compartment, briskly tugging them on.

Buffy rolled her eyes, noticing that Spike didn’t bother to fasten his own seatbelt, though it was still hanging there. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Spike shrugged, shifting the car into reverse and backing out of the makeshift garage. “Never sure when she was having a vision. Thought she might have seen herself trapped in the car burning up. Wasn’t gonna risk it.”

“That’s…” Buffy was going to say ‘sweet’ except in a mocking tone of voice because she was mostly in favor of Drusilla burning up, but then she thought maybe it was kind of sweet after all, and she didn’t know just how it was going to come out, so she just left it at that and turned to lock the car door.

There wasn’t a lock button.

“Spike!” His goggles were focused on his little viewport; Buffy assumed they were navigating the winding roads of the cemetery, from the amount of steering that was going on. “Where’s my lock?”

“Oh, yeah.” Spike shrugged again. “Dru used to mess with it, and she opened the door and fell out one time, so I took the button off, locked her in from the outside from then on.”

“How romantic.” Buffy’s growing fear of falling out of the car, and probably down a cliff, helped her to settle on sarcasm for that remark.

Spike looked over at her with a wry grin. “Can lock you in if you like, love.”

“Oh, _hell_ no.” That was the last thing she needed, to be trapped in the car with Spike, dependent on his whim to get out. No, thank you. She would take her chances with the cliff.

The radio crackled with static, which Buffy thought might be preferable to the ‘music’ but was obviously seriously annoying Spike; he fiddled with the knobs, trying to get better reception, before switching it off with a curse and returning his hands to the wheel. They were traveling west now; he had ducked his head a bit to avoid the direct rays of sunlight angling in through the tiny opening.

“What, don’t you get any other stations?” Buffy glared at Spike. “We’re going on a road trip to a concert. I’m pretty sure music is mandatory.”

“Think you can find something? Be my guest,” Spike muttered. He steered the car into a gentle arc; that must be the traffic circle off of Hot Springs Road. Restfield was actually pretty convenient to the highway – probably why it was such a popular demon gathering place.

While Spike navigated what Buffy was pretty sure was Coast Village Road towards the freeway (he was apparently having good luck with the red lights, he didn’t stop even once), Buffy switched the radio back on and tried to find a station, but the only thing she could get clearly was the classical station, and they were playing some godawful opera, so that was right out. Finally Xander shifted Anya to one side on his lap and leaned forward.

“Hey, I brought a tape! It might get us in the mood for the concert.” He poked Anya – at least Buffy assumed that was what he did, because Anya jumped and giggled and Buffy didn’t want to picture what else he might do to cause that reaction – and Anya pulled a boxed tape out of her purse and handed it up to Buffy.

Spike suddenly floored the gas pedal and the DeSoto leaped forward; there was a sound of screeching tires and a furious horn blast as he swerved to the left. Buffy clutched at the seat back as her side slammed into the (unlocked!) door. After a few more abrupt swerves, Spike eased back in his seat, sliding his goggles up to his forehead and steering with just one hand, other elbow cast over the seatback, which Buffy guessed meant they had just merged onto the 101.

Spike eyed the tape suspiciously as Buffy leaned over to pop it into the tapedeck. “Better not be a sodding boy band,” he growled.

“Hey, I don’t listen to boy bands!” Xander said defensively.

“Actually…” Anya began, but Xander cut her off with a kiss.

The tape started out with a funky beat, and Buffy smiled in recognition of the quirky man’s voice; Willow clapped a little in the back seat.

“If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says ‘fifteen miles to the…”

The Scoobies all joined in with the girl’s voice, “Loooooove _Shaaaaack!_ ”

Spike rolled his eyes, but kept on driving; Buffy thought she saw his chin moving in time with the music.

They were officially on the road.

\---

As the song faded away with a few final growls of “Love Shack!” and a final enthusiastic chord, Buffy had to admit that Xander had done well; she was already in a better mood, and as a bonus, when they were all singing, Spike didn’t seem inclined to talk, which was definitely of the good. She smiled in anticipation of the next song on the mix tape.

The funky beat started up. “If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says ‘fifteen miles to the…”

Xander and Anya enthusiastically chimed in, “Loooooove _Shaaaaack!_ ”

Buffy rubbed her fingers on her temples, suddenly filled with dread. “Xander, why do you have ‘Love Shack’ twice in a row on this mix tape?”

“Oh, it’s not twice!” Anya chirped merrily.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Anya, we just heard this song, and now it’s playing again. That would be the literal definition of ‘twice.’”

“No, I mean it’s more than twice. And if you pay careful attention, you can hear it’s a slightly different mix of the song. See, there’s a different backbeat if you listen closely.” Anya resumed singing along, face blissful.

“More than twice.” Buffy leaned over so she could see past Anya to Xander’s sheepish face. “Xander, how many times can we expect to hear ‘Love Shack’ on this trip?”

“It’s the extended CD single, so, um… five? And it didn’t take up all the space, so I recorded it two more times…”

“So this whole side of the tape is _fifteen_ repetitions of ‘Love Shack’ with minor variations.” Willow was aghast.

Spike turned his whole body to glare at Xander. “Do you even understand what a ‘mix tape’ _is_ , mate?” There was a blaring of horns outside the paint-smeared windows; Spike casually jerked the wheel to one side and back, which apparently did the trick since the horns stopped and the DeSoto continued on, unexploded.

Xander glared right back at Spike “I’m not your mate. And yeah, but this isn’t a mix tape. It’s my ‘Love Shack’ tape. Don’t worry, the other side is different.”

Spike immediately hit the button to change directions on the tape, and suddenly Eddie Murphy’s voice blared out of the speakers.

“…put a _tin can_ in your butt…”

“Wait, what?” Willow squeaked out.

“…put a _little tiny man_ in your butt…”

“Whoa, uh… hit rewind. That’s… um…. Yeah.” Xander’s voice had gone up an octave or so.

“…put a _light_ in your butt…”

Spike gave Buffy a sidelong look, obviously gauging just how much the song was irritating her. She kept her face studiously blank.

“…say, make it _bright_ in your butt…”

Spike finally hit the rewind button with an irritated sigh, though it seemed he was more irritated at Buffy’s lack of irritation than at the actually-irritating song. “That is indeed different.”

“That’s… yeah, that’s just on the end to fill up the space.” Xander shrugged. “Eddie Murphy makes me laugh.”

Anya snuggled in to him. “Liar. The butts are what make you laugh.”

Willow rolled her eyes from the other side of the back seat. “Like we all didn’t know that.” Tara giggled behind her.

Buffy glared over at Xander. “So what’s on this side of the tape? Besides the disturbing butt song.”

The tape finished its rewind with a click, and they all turned fearful eyes to the tapedeck as it started to play.

“I’m… too sexy for my love… too sexy for my _love love’s going to leave meeeeeee…_ ”

Buffy sighed in relief. “Okay, at least I can like this song ironically.” Spike made a disgusted face as he kept driving, and she started to groove along with the beat, just to rub it in. “Willow, can you hand me a Coke?”

“Sure thing, Buffy!” Willow rummaged in the cooler on the middle of the seat. “Here you go!” She distributed drinks all around, running Tara’s across her cheek teasingly.

Buffy rolled the cool, wet can in her hand and pulled the tab, singing, “I’m… too sexy for your _party_ , too sexy for your _party_ , no way I’m disco _danciiiiing_ …” The Coke exploded in her hands, spewing froth all over the dashboard. “Oh, CRAP!”

“What the hell, Slayer!” Spike yelled, voice wounded and betrayed. The car swerved; there were more honking horns.

“I got it!” Buffy said quickly. “Watch the road, jeez.” _What a drama king._ She mopped at the sticky mess on the stereo controls with some napkins Willow hastily shoved at her, the ones she collected in her purse whenever they ate fast food, just in case. Buffy knew she’d never hear the end of it now, how the scrounged napkins that she always joked about had saved the day.

“When we get back, you’ll be paying for the detailing, yeah?” Spike grumbled.

“Like this car’s been detailed even once since it was born,” Buffy groused under her breath, but nodded when Spike glared at her again. “Yeah, whatever.” She shoved the wad of wet napkins into the grocery bag on the floor that she presumed was for trash, since it was full of empty liquor bottles. Damn it, now she had missed the best part of the song, about the poor pussycat. It was almost over.

“I’m… too sexy for this _song_.”

Buffy sighed and waited for the next song to come up, squinting to try and see some of the California shoreline through the streaks of paint on the window. Oh, hey, was that a tree? The hissing of blank tape space was abruptly replaced with an all-too-familiar voice.

“I’m… too sexy for my love… too sexy for my _love love’s going to leave meeeeeee…_ ”

“Oh, bugger this!” Spike bit out, punching out a finger at the eject button.

Which stuck. The song kept on playing. Spike punched at the button again. It stayed stuck. Right Said Fred continued to be Too Sexy.

“Xander!” Buffy cast a desperate look into the back seat, where said perpetrator was trying to hide behind Anya again. “This side of the tape had better not be fifteen repetitions of ‘I’m Too Sexy!’”

“It’s not! It’s…” He mumbled something into Anya’s shoulder.

“It’s what?” Buffy said in a low, hard voice. “What is it?”

“I said, it’s fourteen.” Everyone groaned except Anya, who looked pleased. “Because the CD single has seven versions… and I, um, put it on twice… Oh! But at the end I put ‘Boogie in Your Butt!’ Because of… butts.” His voice got smaller and smaller as he spoke, possibly because Buffy’s eyes were beaming death-rays at him. Sadly, functional death-ray-eyes were not part of the Slayer package, so Xander was merely cowed and trembling, not writhing in agony. He rallied in defense of his mood music. “But you know there’s the Tushapella Mix, which is really cool, and then, um, they sing the song in Spanish…”

Anya beamed at the other occupants of the car. “Xander says ‘I’m Too Sexy’ is my song. He made the tape for me!” She gave Xander a seductive look. “The Tushapella Mix is incredibly erotic.” She leaned in to nibble on his ear. He seemed only too happy to give in to her wiles, if only to escape the death-looks.

Spike was still punching fruitlessly at the eject button; he let out a long string of curses. “Sodding tape deck’s all buggered.” He slammed a hand on the wheel. “Can’t get the tape out.”

Buffy looked at him in horror, then looked at the car stereo. “Is it too late to try the radio again?” She was even willing to listen to one of the mariachi stations that inexplicably had the widest broadcast range and were sometimes the only listening option on the freeway, when the mountains were in the way of all the good stations. There must be some sort of colony of mariachi-loving demons out in the wilds of California.

“Look, Slayer, this isn’t exactly the most modern of audio systems, here. Radio won’t come on while there’s a tape in. Tape won’t come out, we listen to the tape.” He glared out the front window, steering the car sharply. “And thanks to you and your sodding soda pop, that sodding tape is not coming out any time soon.”

The lead singer of Right Said Fred continue to growl semi-musically about shaking his tush on the catwalk, as Xander and Anya made out in their corner of the back seat and Willow and Tara shared looks of despair with Buffy.

“How long have we been on the road?” Buffy asked in a small, broken voice.

Tara looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes.” She smiled apologetically.

\---

Through desperate trial-and-error, Buffy eventually determined that, while the eject button was stubbornly glued in, and the volume knob was stuck at just-slightly-too-loud, the fast-forward button at least was still functional, so she alternated sides, listening to ‘Love Shack’ as many times as she could stand before switching back to listen to ‘I’m Too Sexy’ as many times as she could stand. After a few rounds of that, Buffy tried gaming the end of the ‘I’m Too Sexy’ side to try and catch a bit of ‘Boogie In Your Butt’ because at least it was something different, and after a few listens, she had to agree that some of the verses were pretty funny. Well, the “hot cup of Brim” bit at least, because her mom had drunk Brim for a while when she was trying to cut back on caffeine, and Buffy had once heard her covertly telling a coworker it tasted like ass, so it made her laugh. Every time.

She considered the possibility that she was going insane. But unlike Xander and Anya (who still hadn’t come up for air) and Willow and Tara (who had succumbed to peer pressure and were steaming up their own side of the back seat, possibly in an attempt to block out the music), Buffy didn’t have anything else to do except talk to Spike, and that was _so_ not happening.

Spike had recused himself from the whole music issue with a growl, flipping the collar of his duster up around his ears to muffle the sound and glowering out his tiny smudged viewport. Buffy thought maybe he could dump the goggles – they were driving mostly southeast now, and the sun was behind them – but after a while he tugged them back down over his eyes, and shortly thereafter the road curved more southwards, and occasional flashes of sunlight peeked in to touch his face; each time, a little wisp of smoke would curl up from his skin before he managed to shift out of the way.

After this had happened a few times, Buffy couldn’t help but worry, because even though he was evil and obnoxious, he was driving a car she was riding in, at about ninety miles an hour, and she didn’t want to die. “Are you okay?”

He flashed her a brilliant, manic smirk. “Yeah. This is the best part.” His grin widened as the road curved again and a band of sunlight drifted across his face; he patted briskly at the smoking skin in its wake and made an abrupt lane change; there was a chorus of horns that faded quickly behind them. Buffy clutched at the door that she had just been slammed into.

“Would you slow down?” she huffed, taking deep breaths to calm down her heartrate. Not being able to see outside was not helping her stay mellow; other than the hints offered by the sniping sunbeams, she didn’t know which way they were going, and for all she knew instead of being halfway to L.A. they were in fact burning up the road on the Freeway to Hell. The shocks on the old De Soto were so bad that they could be crashing through any number of obstacles – right through the tollbooth, through the guardrail, across the median, even out into the desert – and she wouldn’t be able to tell. Though she guessed if Spike had done that there would be fewer horns and screeching tires in their wake.

She was beginning to think Spike should have horns on his head, though – curving red devil horns, because she would swear he looked like the devil incarnate right now, smoking with fire and brimstone; she was afraid to look down, just in case she saw a cloven hoof on the clutch. (Old cars had clutches, right? She had heard about clutches, but had never actually seen one.) He was certainly acting like the devil, being all provocative and temptationy in those surprisingly-attractive goggles, which had disordered his gelled hair into spiky, sexy disarray, and with all the smoochy sounds coming from the back seat – Xander and Anya were shamelessly Frenching, and while Willow and Tara were quieter, their little tender coos and whispers were just as suggestive – Buffy was having all sorts of thoughts that she just knew were going to send her to perdition. With the windows blacked out and all her friends engaged in Things Buffy Did Not Want to Watch in the back, the only thing for Buffy to look at was Spike, and the more she looked at him, the better he looked.

Wasn’t Lucifer supposed to have been sinfully gorgeous?

Buffy watched Spike’s profile and really, really wanted to sin.

They finally settled back into a more easterly direction and Spike sighed and pulled the goggles all the way off, leaning across Buffy to tuck them back into the glove compartment, which made her catch her breath. She managed to stop herself from leaning forward to intercept his arm, though, instead glaring at him,

Spike sighed, easing back into his seat. “Got a problem, Slayer?” His fingers twitched on the wheel.

“I always have a problem with you,” Buffy countered.

Spike looked at her sidelong, faintly smiling. “Not the problem I was referring to, love,” he murmured.

Buffy felt her face flaming red. “Any other problems I may or may not have are none of your business.”

“Is that right?” Spike glanced over at her, eyelids suggestively low. “I could show you, you know.”

“Show me what, Spike?” God, Buffy couldn’t listen to another second of Right Said Fred; she leaned over and hit the fast-forward button again.

“What the fuss is all about.” His voice was low, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the tapedeck.

Just like that, Buffy lost the ability to breathe, or maybe it was that all the air had been sucked out of the car, because she felt like she was staring at Spike across the rocky surface of Mars. And then ‘Love Shack’ started up again and the trance was broken, and Buffy sucked in a huge gasping breath and sank back into her seat. Spike was watching her speculatively, tongue at the corner of his evil, evil mouth. A moment later, he shrugged and turned his attention back to the road, making another sharp lane change.

Buffy knew she needed to come up with a snappy comeback, show Spike who was in charge, but obviously the months of sexual frustration, of wishing and hoping and finally demanding satisfaction and being refused, had taken their toll on her psyche, because all she could think was that Spike’s tongue had more than a hundred years of experience, and that whatever that ‘thing’ of Xander’s was that Anya had been bragging about, she would bet her life that Spike had a whole arsenal of ‘things’ that were even better.

So she dealt with Spike the only way she could manage in her current mental state.

She closed her eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

\---

Spike could tell Buffy was faking her sudden nap – her heartrate and breathing were far too fast, and accelerated every time he changed lanes – but that was a sign that he had gotten under her skin, so he didn’t bother pushing his luck for the moment, just drove a little faster and stole glances at Buffy’s luscious thighs, imagining them on his shoulders, and occasionally cleared his throat or hummed along with the B-52’s, just to see her involuntary reactions. (He would have ripped his tapedeck out of the dashboard with his bare hands by the fourth or fifth rendition of ‘Love Shack,’ if the irritated twitches Buffy made as she restrained herself from ‘waking up’ to change the song weren’t so fucking entertaining.)

Spike hadn’t been to Los Angeles since the Gem of Amara fiasco, and he hoped they could get through the weekend without running into dear old Grandpa, who was probably still holding an unreasonable grudge about the torture thing, even though in their long personal history they had both done far worse, to each other and to others while working together. Angel just wasn’t any fun anymore, not even when he was evil; as Angelus he was an obnoxious Dru-thief whose idea of a good time was destroying the world, and as Angel he was just dull as ditchwater, and regardless of his state-of-evil at any given point in time, he spent far too many precious nighttime hours lurking in the shadows and gazing soulfully (or soullessly) off into space.

And also, reading between the lines of Buffy’s little monologue earlier, he was apparently still a snore in bed. Good to know.

Spike jolted the car through another series of lane changes, briefly driving on the shoulder to get around a knot of bloody retirees convoying to the latest bingo musical, or whatever it was old people went to in L.A. these days, and then he had a pleasant stretch of clear road ahead of him, so he could run his eyes up Buffy’s thighs again.

His expectations for the weekend had been simple: Get his album signed, and spend the rest of the time being a thorn in the slayer’s side. Not especially ambitious, but given that his original weekend plans had been to play kitten poker and drink himself into oblivion, it had been a definite step up.

But he knew now that Buffy was horny and frustrated, and he was for all intents and purposes her date for the weekend, and just a short while earlier she had been looking at him like he was a slice of devil’s-food cake, and all of that added up to a very tasty recipe indeed.

All told, he would prefer to feast on the Slayer’s blood, but since that wasn’t an option anymore, he would gladly feast on her in other ways. Then maybe he could track down Angel after all, rub his brooding nose in the news. That would be delicious as well.

Bon-fucking-appetit.

\---

Buffy was going to die.

Pretending to sleep so she didn’t have to meet Spike’s knowing eyes had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she had forgotten about the goddamn tape. It was driving her absolutely crazy; she was sure that when the B-52’s started to sing ‘Love Shack’ at the concert the next evening – which they would have to do, of course – she was going to run screaming into the night. If she did, she was so going to clock Xander on her way out.

The other problem was that with her eyes closed, and her body willed to stillness, the only thing she could do was think. And of course her brain and her body were both interested in exactly one thing – sex, preferably oral – and fixated on exactly one image – Spike and his infernal tongue – and, well, it was amazing how detailed her mind could get in imagining all sorts of situations combining the two.

As it turned out, eight was the magic number. She could pretend to sleep through eight slightly-varied repetitions of ‘Love Shack’ before she could no longer restrain herself. She made a show of waking up, stirring slightly first, mumbling a bit, then yawning and blinking her eyes open, but as soon as she thought she had done enough for plausible deniability, she sat up and hit the fast-forward button again, before she became homicidal.

Spike glanced over at her. “Have a nice nap, did you, Slayer?” His voice was solicitous, but Buffy could hear the laughter underlying it.

“Very refreshing!” Buffy chirped determinedly. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost.” Spike swerved nonchalantly. “Where we headed first?”

“Dinner,” Buffy said, yawning again for good measure. “I think the general consensus was Outback for tonight.”

Spike grinned. “Brilliant. Where’s the hotel, then?”

Buffy gave him the address. “It’s supposed to be right on the beach.”

“Yeah, I know this one.” Spike narrowed his eyes suddenly, then turned the wheel abruptly to the right. There was a loud BANG as the car ran something down; the smooching couples in the back seat variously yelped and squeaked and cursed at the impact. Spike ignored them all, turning the wheel back to the left and continuing down the highway.

“Did you just knock down a sign?” Buffy asked with a frown.

Spike just looked over at her with a grin of unholy glee. “Welcome to Los Angeles, love.”

 

End Chapter 2

 


	4. Chapter 3: Deviant Ingredient

The sun was sinking bright red when they pulled into the parking lot at the Outback closest to the hotel, the neon scenery bright against the darkening sky. Spike pulled sharply into a handicapped space, turning the engine off mid-‘sexy,’ to Buffy’s great relief.

“Head on in, love,” Spike said in a deep voice. “I’ll join you when the sun’s down. Need a smoke.” He started to light up.

Buffy gladly abandoned him and his too-sexy devil pheromones, hoping they could get through the appetizers before he made it in, but they had to wait for a table and so he joined them right before they got seated, reeking of smoke. Once again, Buffy got the short straw, sitting across from Spike while the couples sat next to each other. God, she couldn’t wait until they made it to the hotel and she didn’t have to look at Spike and his stupid sexy cheekbones any more. Their waitress joined them once they were comfortably situated, distributing menus.

“Hey there, I’m Niobe, I’ll be your waitress today.” The waitress had hair dyed as blonde as Spike’s, with a hint of lavender here and there; she smiled brilliantly around the table. “We have some specials today, but before I get you your drinks, I have to let you know that we are currently unable to serve our famous Blooming Onion, or any onion-related dishes, due to the tragic statewide onion shortage.”

Spike swore, slapping his menu closed. “I’ll have a double Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks.”

Buffy frowned. “The dinner coupons don’t pay for alcohol, Spike. Just appetizers and entrees.”

He glared at her. “You’re buying me a drink, or I’m driving back to Sunnydale now.” He muttered something under his breath about onions and crushed hopes and dreams.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll buy you a stupid drink.”

“There’s a statewide onion shortage?” Willow looked genuinely curious.

“So I have been told,” Niobe said wryly. She leaned in, voice low. “The head cook told me that it’s because of a labor shortage, that whole crews of migrant laborers have gone missing, and they couldn’t get the onions harvested in time, but we’re not supposed to talk about it, because immigration is a bit of a touchy subject.” She straightened, smiling cheerily again. “Anyhow, we have a special today on our Filet Mignon, which I highly recommend. The soup of the day for Friday is usually French Onion, but obviously it’s not, since -- onion shortage, we’re doing Chicken Tortilla instead. Off the cocktail menu, I currently recommend our blackberry martini, or our new champagne cocktails.”

Spike was eyeing the waitress up and down. “You an actress, love?”

Niobe gave him a neutral smile. “Dancer, actually.”

“Are you, now?” Spike leaned closer. “I know a bloke, runs a club just down the way. Could get you an audition.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

“Could you?” Niobe flicked a glance at Buffy, who shook her head minutely; the waitress took a step back and beamed at the table. “So, one Johnny Walker Black double on the rocks. What else can I get y’all to drink?”

When she left to drop their drink orders off with the bartender, Buffy kicked Spike under the table. “Behave, Spike.”

Spike glared at her. “Rule was, no kicking the Spike.”

“That wasn’t a real kick,” Buffy sniffed. “If it had been a real kick, you’d be swallowing your teeth right about now.”

Spike shrugged, lounging back in his chair.

Buffy flipped open her menu. “You don’t get to make our waitress think her tip depends on putting up with your bullshit.” She thought back to the jerks she had served at that greasy diner when she had fled to Los Angeles after junior year, and vowed to tip at least twenty-five percent, because Spike was worse.

\---

Spike was fucking pissed off.  He had been looking forward to that Blooming Onion for _days_ , and he was minded to send a strongly worded letter to the management. Or maybe pay them a night-time visit, shake ‘em up a bit, so they would appreciate that the customer is always right, and this customer bloody well wanted a fucking Blooming Onion when he visited their fucking establishment. It was bloody false advertising, it was. They had pictures of that fucking onion all over the fucking restaurant, and any restaurant manager worth his salt would go out in the field and pick the bloody onions himself if he had to. Fucking service profession had no concept of service nowadays.

Buffy was back to ignoring him, and he flipped open his menu again and watched her lazily over the edge. Now there was someone desperately in need of _his_ services, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it yet. He didn’t harbor any illusions that she would want anything more of course, which was just the way he liked it. He was enjoying the bachelor life, he was; it was bloody fantastic, being his own man, doing what he liked and going where he pleased.

Except for the lack of sex. That fucking sucked.

But here, he realized, was a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Truth be told, he was getting a little tired of his unlife being in constant jeopardy, what with the slayer having her knickers twisted over that petty little betrayal thing, and the demons of Sunnydale being all put out over the working-with-the-slayer-to-kill-demons thing. He could stand to have someone in Sunnydale with a reason to keep him alive. And of the two sides, he judged the slayer to be more susceptible to his particular skill set. (He never had figured out the erogenous zones of Fyarl demons. There was also the fact that the slayer was half as likely to rip off his head after orgasm. He liked those odds.)

Spike was supremely confident that once he gave the slayer a little taste of what he had to offer, got her thoroughly lubricated and took her to heaven a time or twelve, she would be more than willing to keep him around and undusted.

And he was _very_ certain he would enjoy the lubrication process himself.

But he had spent enough time around Buffy by now to know that a direct approach would only lead to rejection and a broken nose. No, there was only one way to get the slayer to spread her delectable buffet for him to feast upon, and that was to pretend that he didn’t want it. Make her come to him. And then make her come and come and come until she didn’t care how evil he was.

He already knew she was curious and sexually frustrated and attracted to him, so half his work was done. Now all he needed to do was ignore her.

Nonchalantly perusing his menu, he relaxed down in his seat a bit more, letting his legs slide a bit closer to Buffy’s side of the table, until his knees were just brushing against hers. She frowned at him and shifted away, flushing slightly. He didn’t pursue, just left his legs there, just within reach, and pretended that he hadn’t even noticed the brief contact.

Glancing up through his eyelashes, he saw Buffy bite her lower lip in indecision. He schooled his face to boredom, looking up at one of the many television screens in the restaurant, as if he cared about the fucking golf game.

He waited.

A few moments later, when their waitress returned to distribute drinks, Buffy gave him a furtive glance and relaxed her knee against his. She quivered ever-so-slightly at the contact.

Spike barely managed not to smile.

\---

It was just a knee, Buffy reminded herself. Not even an interesting part of the male body. Just a knee. Just a knee that was sending tingles right up her thigh to all sorts of interesting places, making her want to tip over the table and lunge onto his lap and make him live up to the promise of his wicked, wicked words in the car.

The waitress was taking their orders now, going around the table, and Buffy watched Spike’s hypnotic mouth move when it was his turn, her knee quivering against his.

What he said was, “Wings, hot as they come. Filet mignon, bloody. Garlic mashed potatoes. Don’t bother with the salad, love.”

What Buffy heard was, “ _I could show you what all the fuss is about._ ”

And she thought, _Show me yours and I’ll show you mine._

Then the waitress was turning to her, and she managed to stutter out her order. She almost ordered the wrong steak – she wanted a plain old six-ounce sirloin, no sauce, but the Sirloin Diablo had caught her attention when she had looked at the menu, and looking at Spike’s devil-face now, the Diablo just came out without her thinking it, and she had to correct it after. She made up for her slip by going for the most virtuous, non-sexy sides she could – steamed broccoli and a house salad, with low-fat vinaigrette to make it extra penitent – and passed her menu down the table before she could change her mind.

Spike was still engrossed in whatever the TV screen over her head was showing, meditatively sipping the undoubtedly-expensive drink she had bought him to soothe his onion-angst, or whatever that had been. Which was actually pretty infuriating, because here she was fangirling over his stupid knee while he was watching (she glanced up at the TV) golf. _Golf!_

She was still fuming over that a few minutes later when her salad arrived, having resorted to actively rubbing her knee against Spike’s in an attempt to get his attention.

Because seriously. _Golf_.

She was drizzling her low-fat penance over her salad when she realized that Spike had found something more interesting than the golf at last. His hot wings.

As she watched over a forkful of lettuce, he lifted one of the hot wings, dripping with sauce, regarded it lovingly, and darted out his tongue to taste the sauce. Her hand froze, the lettuce dangling just below her chin, as she watched him delicately nibble every speck of meat off the fragile bones, licking dribbles of sauce off his fingertips. And then, as he dropped the bones carelessly onto his plate, he finally looked at her, eyes smoldering as he sucked on his fingertips. She felt it all the way down to her toes, and shivered.

Oh god. She was jealous of a hot wing.

She shook her head sharply and turned her attention to her salad. It was nice and crunchy, with a good blend of greens and cucumbers and tomatoes and all sorts of things that were good for her. It was important to make good decisions if one wanted to stay healthy and happy and…

She watched Spike eat another hot wing. This time he kept his eyes on hers as he ate. Had he used his tongue that much with the first one? When he finished, he licked his lips, and she licked hers in automatic response. He pursed his lips and judiciously selected his next piece, smiling sensuously as he brought it to his mouth. She felt delirious watching him, as he turned the act of eating into something fully erotic.

Screw being healthy. She wanted to become a fully eroticized being.

She wanted Spike’s lips and his tongue and his teeth on every part of her body, nibbling and licking and sucking and showing her everything she knew she had been missing out on.

She wanted to be a hot wing.

Oh god, she was in trouble.

And then Spike shrugged and turned his attention back to the golf, and she wanted to kill him again.

That was a relief.

\---

Buffy tried. She tried so hard to ignore Spike as he finished off his hot wings and argued with Xander about… something on one of the screens, she wasn’t quite sure what… and then when his steak came she was able to regain a bit of control, because it really was bloody, and it reminded her of just what and who he was. Though a tiny little part of her even found that erotic, the sight of him blissfully chewing on nearly-raw meat, which made her feel a bit deviant. And instead of feeling guilty over her own deviancy, like she was supposed to, she just felt naughty and sexy, which wasn’t quite what she had expected. So that was a mixed bag on the encouraging-Buffy’s-healthy-life-choices front.

Then she watched him devour a huge pile of mashed potatoes. One lick at a time.

All in all, it was a good thing that they were going to head back the hotel soon, and she could finally get him out of her face, and maybe gain a little perspective. Because she couldn’t do naughty, sexy, evil, indescribably wonderful things with Spike. It was completely out of the question. No matter how much she wanted it. No matter how much she wanted his sinful mouth to slide down along her quivering stomach and… No. _No._

The amount of money she had to shell out for Spike’s alcohol and apologetic tips for their poor Spike-harassed waitress went a long way towards solidifying her resolve, because really? The meal was supposed to be _free_ but Spike had single-handedly made it hideously expensive. She was going to have to make sure his room didn’t have an honor bar.

She maintained her stiff fury through the short drive to the hotel, which she was pretty proud of, since she already associated the interior of the car with horribly-wrong-Spike-lust, and while the others unloaded the car, she went to turn in her room-vouchers at the front desk and get them all registered. The lobby was shiny, with marble and brass and huge expanses of empty space; she felt out of place, in her college-student jeans and decidedly-not-haute-couture shirt, but she looked around and thought maybe she could get used to the lap of luxury. If she ever saw it again after this weekend.

She joined the others at their loaded luggage-cart, sorting out the key cards. “Okay we’re on the fourteenth floor, guys. Rooms 1412, 1413, and 1414.

Anya looked at Buffy’s handful of keycards narrowly. “Does this hotel have a thirteenth floor?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “How would I know?”

“Well, it’s important!” Anya’s eyes were huge. “A lot of hotels skip the number thirteen when they number the floors, because it’s unlucky, right? But then the problem is, they’re just putting a bandaid on the problem. There’s still a thirteenth floor, they just call it the fourteenth floor.”

Xander slid a comforting arm around her waist. “I’m sure all the rooms are very lucky, Ahn. They’re _free_. What could be luckier than that?”

“Well, I’m not going to stay in room 1413 if it might really be room 1313. We can’t have sex in an unlucky room.” Anya sounded terrified, and Xander gave Buffy a pleading look.

“Room 1414 it is, then.” Buffy handed Xander and Anya a pair of keycards.

“Can we have 1412 then?” Willow’s voice was apologetic, but insistent. “We, uh, can’t be too careful about those negative energies. Being witches and all.” Tara nodded, looking nervous.

Buffy sighed and handed over the keycards for 1412. Willow gave Tara a look that promised all sorts of energy. Probably lots of _oral_ energy, Buffy grumbled to herself. _Damn it_. Everyone was getting some but her.

Then she looked at the keycards still in her hand. Oh. _Oh._ This was… not good. Why hadn’t she realized that this was going to be a problem earlier? Like before she had vetoed the Greyhound bus?

Spike snagged one of the keycards labeled 1413 out of her hand, smirking. “Looks like you and I are _roomies_ , Slayer.”

The other couples looked at Buffy with expressions that masterfully blended sympathy with the firm determination that, no matter how much it sucked to be her, they were not giving up their private hotel sexytimes just because she had the roommate from Hell. Literally.

And a part of Buffy, the part she desperately wanted to pretend didn’t exist, the part still stuck on Spike’s evil mouth thinking _I need it, I want it, I’ve got to have it_ – that tiny, deviant part stood up and cheered.

 

End Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week, I had the opportunity to travel via Greyhound with the Los Angeles station as my starting point, and all I have to say is: Good call, Buffy. GOOD CALL.


	5. Chapter 4: Eyes Wide Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to The Moonmoth for her fabulous beta-reading work! She catches everything!

On their way up to Room 1413, Buffy had only one thought in her mind. Well, one thought that she was going to acknowledge, because the rest were obviously the fever-dreams of a mind pushed past its limit due to the deliberate harassment of a certain asshole of a vampire.

_Please, please, please, PLEASE, let there be two beds!_

She looked again at the paper in her hand confirming their check-in. _Double occupancy_ , it said. That was _so_ not helpful.

Spike was obviously enjoying her discomfort, regarding her smugly out of the corner of his eye as he solicitously volunteered to push the shiny brass Bellman cart out to the pullaround, helping to load everybody’s luggage and the cooler. He tipped the parking attendant lavishly, giving him a few words of advice on the handling of his baby – the parking attendant said something about being a “classic car aficionado,” which did not raise him in Buffy’s estimation – and whistled as he wheeled the cart into the huge mirrored elevator, pressing the button for the fourteenth floor.

The elevator speakers were playing a Muzak version of “Love Shack.” Of course.

“See? No thirteenth floor,” Anya whispered to Xander, in a voice that might have been surreptitious if they hadn’t all been standing in the same small box. “We really dodged a bullet there.”

Nobody would meet Buffy’s eyes in the mirror.

When the elevator dinged for the fourteenth floor, Buffy went ahead and held the open-door button while everyone else streamed out, because her weekend already sucked so much she may as well spare everyone else the suckage, and for a moment she debated just letting it go while she was still inside, riding the elevator down to the bottom, maybe finding out where the car had been parked so she could sleep across the back seat, but then she remembered that the concierge had verified that yes, all the rooms had amply stocked honor bars, and she darted out of the elevator and hurried down the hall to catch up with the others, because she just knew if she gave Spike even five seconds of alone time with the tiny, insanely-expensive bottles of liquor, she would end up having to sell all her worldly possessions on eBay to pay the bill.

Rooms 1412 and 1414 were right next to each other, and apparently – from Willow’s squeals and Anya’s pained sighs – had an adjoining door, the kind that was really two doors so either room could lock the other out. Anya had a look on her face that said their side of the door was going to be locked at the earliest polite opportunity. Possibly at the earliest rude opportunity.

“It’s like a slumber party!” Tara said eagerly, if inaccurately, and the two couples laughed - even Anya - as they dragged their weekend bags into the rooms.

Buffy grumbled to herself as she lugged her own suitcase into the decidedly-non-slumber-partyish room across the hall, heaving it up onto the luggage caddy.

Spike had already set his duffel bag in the corner and was lounging casually across the white coverlet of the bed, boots leaving marks on the duvet as he leafed through the pamphlet describing the hotel’s amenities. From the sly glance he flashed her out of the corner of his eye, she was pretty sure the boot thing was just to piss her off, and it was working, but she was a bit more focused on the bed itself.

_The_ bed.

The one, single, solitary queen-sized bed.

It wasn’t even _king-sized_.

Buffy was wondering just how comfy the tub was for sleeping, when Spike tossed the pamphlet aside, rolled over onto his back, and stretched like a cat, watching her through his eyelashes. “Ready for bed, Slayer?” he purred. The very tip of his tongue slipped out of the corner of his mouth.

Buffy’s fingers itched to rub his tummy. And other parts of him besides his tummy. All of the parts. And not just with her fingers. All of his parts and all of her parts and oh god, she needed to get away.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said abruptly, hastily pulling her jammies out of her suitcase – why had she packed camis and shorts instead of heavy flannels? – and rushing into the bathroom. A second later, she poked her head out. Spike was already squatting down by the fridge full of booze. “Spike, if you drink anything from the honor bar, I will drop you off the balcony head first!”

He sighed heavily. “Fine, Slayer. I won’t drink.” He looked up at her, eyes dark and suggestive. “Enjoy your shower, love.”

She barely managed to not break the door when she slammed it.

***

One nice thing about hotels, Buffy thought to herself twenty minutes later with a happy sigh: an endless supply of hot water. The bathroom was nicely appointed, too – shiny fixtures and a deep tub and heaps of fluffy white towels and a blow dryer and a nice selection of soaps and lotions, though of course Buffy had brought her own. The shower had a removable spray attachment too, which she always appreciated because she was too short for most showers; she always ended up with water in her eyes.

Yep, very nice bathroom. Luxurious. Tasteful.

Unfortunately, acknowledging the niceness of the bathroom and the hotness of the water and the convenience of the showerhead had only taken about thirty seconds, and Buffy had spent the other nineteen-point-five minutes of her shower so far thinking about Spike.

About two minutes in, Buffy had started imagining the spray of the shower as Spike’s hands, traveling across her body. She had spent several minutes after that directing the spray onto her breasts, which soon had her breathing hard, leaning against the shower wall.

Then, feeling indescribably naughty, she had guided the spray down her stomach and right between her legs.

The first impact had been so intense she had cried out involuntarily, slapping her own hand over her mouth right after.

Oh, god, had Spike _heard_ her?

She had stood there in the shower, the water aimed safely back at her stomach, listening intently for any sign of life from the next room. After a bit, she was pretty sure Spike had let out a bored sigh. She heard the TV, some soap opera reruns.

Good enough.

Keeping her mouth covered to avoid future embarrassment, Buffy had turned the spray back where she wanted it, whimpering against her palm as she imagined the spray of water as Spike’s tongue. Her legs had felt weak, and she had slowly sat down in the tub, letting her breathing accelerate. Spike couldn’t hear her, right? Not over the sound of the water. He couldn’t possibly hear a thing.

She hooked her knee over the edge of the tub and flicked the shower setting to _massage._

***

Spike could hear everything.

To be fair, he was really listening, because the very idea that Buffy was naked and wet just on the other side of the door had caught every ounce of his attention, and he had a _very_ vivid imagination. Not to mention an excellent memory. He had run his hands over every inch of the slayer’s body that one time under Willow’s spell, and he knew very well the shape of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

When he heard her sit down in the tub, he barely stifled a groan, knowing she was getting serious.

He stayed zipped up, knowing that a puddle on the bed was a sure-fire way to get kicked out of the room for good, but as he listened to her stifled whimpers, he stroked himself through his jeans, because he couldn’t _not_ touch himself when the slayer was touching _her_ self just ten feet away.

He hoped she was imagining him.

When she came the first time, he was as surprised as she was, nearly swearing at the rush of lust that swept through him just listening to her panting and trying not to cry out. The thrumming of the shower was like a heartbeat in his ears; he heard it change sound as it skittered away from Buffy’s flesh to hammer on the porcelain of the tub.

_Use your fingers now_ , he willed, his hand hard against his cock, and it was like she had heard him, because the water-on-porcelain sound continued but Buffy let out a tiny groan, and he pictured her lolling in the bathtub, sweat trickling between her breasts and legs spread wide and both her hands delving deep into her delicious quim, her head thrown back in ecstasy, blonde hair curling damply over her neck, and he came with a jolt, quivering on the edge of the bed as he listened to her stroking herself off a second time. From the sound of it, she was biting her own hand to keep from screaming.

She didn’t even try to keep it quiet the third time.

Spike wondered dizzily what the hotel’s laundry facilities were like.

***

This was not working out.

When Buffy had succumbed to temptation and starting using the shower head as an assist in her self-loving, it had been with the vague idea that an orgasm or two – she _did_ know what they were, even if the guys she had been with had never figured out how to get her there, the jerks – would take the edge off her completely unacceptable and inexplicable lust for Spike, thereby allowing her to sleep peacefully on her half of the bed. She didn’t want to clash, she didn’t want to waste time rehashing the past, she just wanted peace. And she was a grownup. She could totally handle that sort of thing.

Except she obviously couldn’t, because every time she brought herself off – she hadn’t been counting, but she was starting to worry that she was going to find out what the limits of the hotel hot-water system were – it just made her hotter, made her more eager to take Spike up on his offer. She had wanted some sort of release, but instead she was just rising higher and higher, like she had hit the jet-stream and was heading into orbit.

Her eyes were wide open as she coaxed herself into another gentle orgasm, sighing breathlessly as it tingled through her, and she wondered what would actually happen if she let herself have a tiny taste of temptation. Just take a little bite, here alone in this hotel room, away from prying eyes. Below the radar. Hiding in plain sight. She stroked herself lazily, debating the pros and cons like a grownup. Wow, that was lot of cons. Except even the endless list of cons didn’t seem to be outweighing the one pro: _I want it_.

Then she heard it. A tiny grunt from the other room. A whispered oath.

Oh. He _could_ hear her. He was listening _right now_.

The thought rocked her right into another orgasm, sharp and sudden, and she laughed out loud, because of course he could hear her, he was a vampire, they had super-hearing, and as she pictured him lying in the other room, listening to her, she felt hotter than lava, hotter than the sun. And suddenly in control again.

She liked being in charge.

_Enjoying the show?_ she thought wickedly. _Well, here comes the second act._

She had her assignment. She had at it with a vengeance.

“Oh, god, _Spike_!” she moaned dramatically, setting the showerhead on the floor of the tub at just the right angle to bathe her pussy while she flicked at her throbbing clit. She heard a thud from the other room that she was pretty sure was Spike falling off the bed, and laughed again. “Oh, Spike, you’re so _evil_!”

***

A long while later, Buffy sauntered casually out of the bathroom, toweling her hair, one of the hotel’s complimentary bathrobes wrapped snugly around her. Spike was lying on his stomach on the bed – though his boots were at least off – desultorily switching channels with the remote. She noticed that his duffel bag was open now, and a pair of jeans was balled up in the corner. _Mission accomplished_ , she thought serenely.

“Nice shower?” he said in a neutral tone of voice, though he gave her a sidelong glance that made her want to go back in for another go at the showerhead.

“Very nice, thank you,” Buffy replied politely.

She had just started to fan at her damp chest with the lapels of the robe – making sure Spike had a good view of the fact that she had _not_ put on her pajamas yet – when there was a knock at the door. Tugging her belt tighter, Buffy looked through the peephole, then opened the door to an embarrassed-looking man in the hotel’s concierge uniform.

“Can I help you?” she said, giving Spike a glare that said he’d better not have ordered room service.

“Yes, well…” The bellhop took a deep breath before rushing on, looking determinedly off into the middle distance. “The occupants of room 1411 have requested that you, um, keep the noise levels down.”

Buffy felt herself turning bright red. “Oh.” When the bellhop continued to stand there, obviously expecting more acknowledgment than that, she smiled brightly. “Of course we will. So sorry for the trouble.”

She closed the door carefully. Oh, look, there was a card on the back of the door listing emergency evacuation procedures! Buffy decided this would be an excellent time to read it, in detail, because that meant not having to turn around and face Spike, now that their plausible we-weren’t-just-masturbating-together deniability had been shattered. Well, technically it hadn’t been _together_. Mutually? Simultaneously? In unison? She didn’t think it counted as _together_ unless they were in the same room, maybe lying side by side, or possibly sitting at opposite ends of the bed, naked, watching each other with hungry eyes until they couldn’t take it anymore and they lunged forward and met in the middle and…

Ho-kay, that was enough emergency card. It was obviously not helping her with her current emergency at all.

What the hell, she could brazen this out.

She whipped around with a brilliant smile. “So, anything good on TV?”

***

Spike knew the slayer was trying to tease him now, lounging around in that bathrobe, letting the lapels hang open so he occasionally caught the barest glimpse of nipple, draping it over her legs so that her thighs were exposed almost all the way up, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain. He liked a bit of torment once in a while, especially this kind, where the only pain came from unresolved lust, which just made the eventual – in this case he would even go with _inevitable_ – pleasure that much more intense. He even felt a bit more respect for the slayer now, what with how she was taking his seduction and turning it around on him, giving as good as she got. Not that he hadn’t respected her before – given all the ass-kicking and such – but that was more the acknowledgment of a worthy foe, while this was… Well, still acknowledgment of a worthy foe, but on the field of seduction instead of battle, and he actually found himself rather liking her for it.

Even when she commandeered the remote, flipping away from the Soap Opera Channel. Bitch.

***

Buffy sighed, trying to think of another way to torment Spike.

She had exposed as much of herself as she felt comfortable exposing, though a little voice inside her kept suggesting she undo the belt and let Spike have a good look at everything, maybe just point at her crotch and say _Show me what the fuss is all about NOW!_ in her most imperious voice, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it, and so she sighed and left her belt on. Though she did sneakily flash Spike a couple of times, under cover of shifting into a more comfortable position.

She wasn’t ready for him to take it yet, but she liked the image of his nose pressed up against the glass of her show window. So to speak.

She had already denied him the booze – and as it turned out he had brought a couple of bottles of his own along, so he didn’t have any excuse to whine – and she unfortunately had given him her word about the bed, so the only thing she had left to deny him was the television. She flipped to the cable guide channel, frowning as show after show scrolled past. Which of the dozens of choices would annoy Spike the most?

Horror and action movies were right out. Since he liked “Dawson’s Creek,” she figured “Saved by the Bell” was also right up Spike’s alley. Ditto for “Dynasty.”

After Outback, she refused to put on golf.

Finally, she found a station that she thought might have the right blend of bearable-to-Buffy and miserable-for-Spike. The movie was just about to start; she flipped to the channel, then went off to change into her pajamas. She took the remote with her.

Spike glared at her as she came out of the bathroom. “Any particular reason you wanted me to watch the last five minutes of “Singing in the Rain?” He then took a second look at her light cami and shorts, mouth falling open slightly. Buffy quickly folded her arms over her breasts, which had perked up under his eyes.

“Oh, no.” she said airily. “I just want to watch the movie that comes after. I’ve never seen it, but I thought I would enjoy it.” _More to the point, I thought you would hate it, Mister Punk Music._ She snuggled under the covers on her side of the bed, glowering poisonously at Spike. “So there’s a line down the middle of this bed. If you so much as put a pinky over the line, I will rip your… I will rip things off. Got it?” She mentally reinforced her image of the line, because right now there was a fifty-fifty chance she was going to be the one to breach the barrier. She eyed his ass. _Okay, seventy-thirty._

“Uh, yeah, got it,” Spike said, sounding a little strangled. He turned and eased up to sit back against the headboard, tucking his legs under the covers. Disappointingly far from the line. “So, what horrible television torment are you subjecting me to?”

Buffy smiled evilly. “The Wiz.”

Spike laughed, then gave her a wicked sidelong look. “ _Fuck_ , Slayer, are you trying to kill me?”

Buffy quivered. Something about the way Spike said the f-word made her want to f-word him into the floor. She steeled herself and turned the volume up a shade louder. “Maybe.”

“God, woman, have you no mercy? Whatever you do, don’t make me watch this!” He sounded like he was going for an Oscar in Best Whinging; Buffy stuck her tongue out at him.

“Suck it up, Spike.” _Oooh, poor choice of words there,_ Buffy thought, flushing. _Especially after the tongue._ “My room, my remote.”

With an irritated, dramatic eye-roll, Spike wriggled deeper into the pillows. “You’re a cruel, cruel woman.” He looked like he was trying not to smile.

What a weird vampire.

Buffy had never realized just how insanely hot “weird” could be.

She settled in for a long, long night.

 

End Chapter 4

 


	6. Chapter 5: Dreamland

Everything was shimmering.

Buffy was in a boat, a boat floating on air, and she was drifting along, drifting on the wind, a perfume of blossoms that a tiny part of her mind defined as “complimentary hotel shampoo” but in her dream, she knew was the beguiling scent of lush flower petals, orchids and gardenias and lotus blossoms, exotic blooms, red and pink and golden, drifting down around her.

Spike was kissing her. It was perfect.

They were falling, floating in heaven for hours, falling through blossoms and petals and leaves, falling from trees so tall, trees like towers, down to a flowered river that carried them along and all the while Spike was kissing her, kisses as pure as the sky was blue.

Then they were on a path, green and inviting, and she took Spike’s hand and led him along, under the fragrant bower, and he caught her up in his arms in the sunlight and they laughed and tumbled and tangled, entwined with the lilies and the vines, and everything was shimmering.

Buffy’s hands were burning. She was fighting Spike now, fighting in a cave, hands in flames, and then they were kissing and fighting and rolling, naked, on rocks and dirt and moss and crushed flower petals.

Spike rose above her, eyes as blue as his kisses were pure; she gasped and gazed at him adoringly, and he smiled.

His voice was velvet. _I’ll show you what the fuss is all about_.

And he slid down her body and she didn’t know what happened then, but in her dream she just knew it was good, it was perfect, it was pure and fragrant and shimmering, and she tumbled with him until she was on top, looking down at him, burning hands on his chest and she slid her hand down and felt him, hard and solid and _real…_

And she startled awake, and realized that it _was_ real.

That there was a real penis in her hand.

Well, _under_ her hand, technically, since it was covered by a pair of jeans, but most definitely a penis, most definitely in contact with her hand, and most definitely – _oh god_ – belonging to Spike.

She was curled up into his back – her nipples were hard under her thin camisole and as she woke up she realized she had been rubbing them needily against his bare shoulder blades – her knees tucked snugly under his and her arm snaked around his naked waist and her hips pulsing against his butt, and yes, there was no denying that her hand was definitely on his very definitely hard penis.

It occurred to her that, in retrospect, sharing a bed with Spike, when she had been having erotic dreams about him for months, and was seriously orgasm-deprived besides, had been an incredibly bad idea, and perhaps sleeping in the car would have been a good move after all, even with the booze-and-cigarettes ambience. She could have cracked a window.

Because this was bad. Like, getting-involved-in-a-land-war-in-Asia bad. Splitting-up-in-a-horror-movie bad. Maybe even insulting-a-Greek-goddess bad.

And actually, now that she thought about it, maybe this actually was the nadir of bad. Because no matter how much she wracked her brain, she could not think of a bad that was worse than waking-up-to-find-yourself-feeling-up-an-evil-vampire bad.

No, wait, waking-up-to-find-out-that-you-had-turned-your-vampire-boyfriend-evil-by-way-of-what-she-suspected-was-only-mediocre-sex was in fact worse. But not by much.

Buffy suddenly realized that all this time she had been thinking about just how bad this whole situation was, her hand had been thoughtfully stroking up and down the length of Spike’s evil penis, and _hey!_ Maybe she should stop doing that, seeing as it was such a bad, bad, bad, bad idea. The problem was, even now that she had noticed what she was doing and was thinking about actively stopping it, her hand just wasn’t stopping.

Was it _possessed_? The thought was both terrifying – she suddenly pictured herself with a chainsaw strapped to a bloody stump as she hunted her own hand through a dilapidated cabin - and comforting, because if her hand was in fact possessed, then none of this was her fault.

Well, maybe the nipple-rubbing. Unless her nipples were also possessed. Not a reassuring thought.

Spike hadn’t moved at all since she had woken up, which Buffy really hoped meant he was still asleep and not frozen in shock, and Buffy decided that as soon as she could get her hand to stop moving, she just needed to get back to her own side of the bed – she had not only crossed the imaginary line; her entire body was on Spike’s side – and if she managed to do it without waking Spike up, maybe she could just roll over and pretend that nothing had happened. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he would just think it had been an extremely realistic dream.

With a Herculean effort of will, Buffy convinced her hand to stop stroking, and prepared to nonchalantly lift it on the count of three. As she counted, she sent a desperate plea to any higher powers that might be listening – she was not religious, but if they did her a solid it might well be sufficient motivation to become so – for Spike not to wake up.

_Please don’t wake up please don’t wake up please don’t wake up…_

Tragically (but she supposed inevitably, given her lack of prior religious devotion) her prayers went unanswered and Spike’s hand slid down to tenderly cover hers. “Good morning, pet,” he purred. “Feeling frisky, are we?” He tilted his hips into her hand with a low growl of approval.

For a moment – only a moment, Buffy would swear to it – she felt her hand sink deeper into the caress, letting Spike’s fingers wind into hers, tucking the denim around his hard length, before she snatched it away with a squeak, scuttling back to her side of the bed. _Bad hand!_ she thought, giving her fingers a little slap. _Bad, BAD possibly-possessed hand!_

Spike slowly rolled over to face her. Buffy’s mad scramble had jumbled the blankets and sheets up at the foot of the bed, so she had an excellent view of his naked chest – apparently he had ditched his shirt after Buffy had drifted off during _The Wiz_ – and his jeans, sinfully low on his hips, and the little trail of hair that helpfully pointed the way to his crotch. Buffy tried not to look, but really, it was impossible not to. _Oh god._ He cocked an elbow and rested his head on his hand, regarding her with a sleepy grin.

Buffy nearly fell off the bed trying to get further away. “Stay on your half of the bed! Your half!”

“I am on my half, love.” Spike poked a finger down into the mattress. “Center of the bed’s right here.”

His finger was a scant half-inch short of his crotch. Which was _of course_ the most prominent part of his body at this particular point in time. So technically he was right, but it sure felt like he was all up in Buffy’s business, like he had _all_ the bed and Buffy had none.

“If anyone should be complaining about having their personal space invaded, it should by rights be me,” Spike continued, putting on an injured expression. “Waking up to find myself being molested…”

Buffy was about to stammer out something apologetic, but then she noticed the sly grin peeking out under his pout, and narrowed her eyes. “ _Are_ you complaining?”

“Well, no,” Spike admitted cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, you can come invade more thoroughly if you want to. I think you may have missed some territory, just prime for occupation.” He toyed significantly with the button of his jeans. “I promise not to surrender too quickly. Make it fun.”

Buffy looked at him in sudden realization. “Spike, what is going on? Why are you suddenly acting like a cross between Fabio and Casanova?”

Spike returned her assessing look. “So, we’re actually talking about this now, are we? Instead of pretending nothing’s happening?”

Buffy lay back down on the bed, mirroring Spike’s seductive pose. His eyes locked gratifyingly on her breasts, which she knew were still all perky and possibly-possessed. Two could play at this game. “Yes. Yes, I think it’s time we lay our cards on the table. What exactly are you up to?”

Spike let his free hand fall across his hip, calling attention once again to his bulging crotch. “What am I _up_ to?” His voice dripped with insinuation.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “God, Spike! Is everything an innuendo with you?” When Spike’s face turned thoughtful, as if he were actually thinking about how to reply, she slapped a hand on the mattress. “ _Don’t_ answer that.”

Spike shrugged, somehow managing to sink into an even-sexier lounge.

Buffy could feel her eyes starting to bug out. “God, what is with… all of this?” She waved a hand, vaguely indicating Spike’s entire body, trying very hard not to point at the part of his body that she – or at least her wayward hand – found most interesting. “The flirting, the finger-licking, the lounging like a sex god? Are you trying to _seduce_ me?”

“Hardly,” Spike scoffed, face dramatically incredulous. “Just thought perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement. A little _quid pro quo_.” Then his eyes narrowed in speculation. “Do you _want_ me to seduce you? Because…”

Buffy scrunched her eyes closed, waving her hand frantically between them. “No. There is to be no seducing of any kind. No more innuendo, no more hints and allegations and bedroom eyes.” She opened her eyes just enough to glare at him narrowly. “I know you’re up to something. The jig is up. So, spill.”

Spike caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Spill what?”

She pointed at him accusingly. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

Spike tilted his head back, looking down his nose at her with slumberous eyes. “You want to know my _exact_ plans?”

“Everything. Lay it on the line, Spike.” Buffy pointed at the imaginary center line of the bed.

“My _exact plans_.” Spike stretched slightly, like a panther, directing his eyes at the ceiling. “Well. I think we can take the basic foreplay as read, so once I have you naked and quivering and spread out before me, I think I’ll start with one good lick, all the way from back to front, use my thumbs to spread you open so I can get everywhere. Like a painter, yeah? Work in broad strokes before I get in to all the little details….”

Buffy knew she should speak, get him to stop because that hadn’t been what she was asking at _all_. She knew she had to shut him up. She just couldn’t.

Obviously her vocal cords were also possessed.

***

Ten minutes later, Buffy was staring at Spike with glazed eyes, his words dripping like honey all through her, or more like she was the honey, all made of honeycomb from top to bottom, just waiting for every drop of herself to be sucked out.

“…and then I would slide my finger inside you, so very deep, until I found your spot – you know, _that_ spot – and press on it, just right, while I’m flicking at your delicious clit – I think now just the tip of my tongue, I think you’d enjoy that about this point, and…”

Buffy’s curiosity managed to get her voice working again. “What spot?”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “ _That_ spot.” He sighed, shaking his head mournfully. “Slayer, you’re not telling me that none of the men you’ve done have bothered to show you _that spot_ , are you?”

Buffy stuck out her lower lip, suddenly pissed off now that she had broken the trance. “I think you’re making _that spot_ up.”

“Really? Is that what you think?” Spike traced a finger right down the center line of the bed again, leaving an indentation in the sheet. “Only one way to prove it, love.”

“You are getting off-topic, Spike. In fact, you were never _on_ -topic.” There, that sounded nice and moralistic. Not at all like someone who had almost been hypnotized into crawling across the bed and begging an evil vampire to help her find a spot that surely didn’t exist.

Spike managed to look mystified, the rat. “Huh. I was under the impression that the _topic_ was what I was proposing to do to you. Not even half finished with that topic yet. Haven’t even gotten to the part where I hook your ankles around my neck and drive my cock into you while I’ve got my hands all over your…”

Buffy barely, by the skin of her teeth, managed to keep her face firm and angry despite the fact that her ladyparts were suddenly all on board Spike’s Off-Topic Express. “No. No, the _topic_ is supposed to be what are you proposing? As in, what are you expecting me to do?”

Spike grinned. “I expect you to enjoy it, pet. Possibly scream a few times. Actually, more than a few, as I think you’ll have the stamina to make it into double digits easily, and…”

“ _No_.” Buffy closed her eyes, so that she couldn’t see his wicked, insanely-sexy grin. “I mean, you’re evil, right? You’re proposing… a deal. A deal involves both sides getting something. So what’s in this for you?”

“Besides getting to taste you, feeling you come on my tongue and under my fingers and around my cock over and over? Fucking you until neither one of us can walk? Because that would be…”

Buffy felt faint. “ _Spike_.”

Spike suddenly dropped his sexy act, face falling into familiar hard lines. “All right then. How’s this for a proposition? I get you off, show you exactly _what the fuss is all about_ , and in return, you don’t kill me. Simple enough?”

Buffy nearly collapsed from relief. Unlike Seductive Spike, Self-Interested Spike was something she understood, could deal with. Suddenly everything made sense. Well, almost made sense. “So you want to be my vamp gigolo. Are we talking a one-time deal?”

“Well, I would prefer the not-killing-me part to be for an extended period of time. Rest is up to you.” He looked at her through his eyelashes, eyes glittering. “Despite rumors to the contrary, my instincts tell me that multiple engagements would be… _rewarding_.”

“But you hate me.” Buffy kept her eyes fixed on his face.

“From the bottom of my unbeating heart,” Spike vowed, placing his hand over his heart.

“And I hate you.”

“Yeah,” Spike said softly. “That makes it even better.” He let his eyes drift down along Buffy’s body. “I know you want me. Can see it. Can smell it. And I think you know that I want you too.” He indicated his crotch which was – Buffy couldn’t help but sneak a peek – yes, still bulging. _Wow._

Buffy shook off thoughts of size and stamina and got back to the point. “So let me get this straight. You are actually proposing to provide me with sexual favors, in exchange for my not killing you.” It sounded awful, laid out like that. Like she was taking advantage of him, like those sleazy directors with casting couches.

Spike didn’t seem bothered by the ethics. “Well, yeah.” He leaned forward until he was right up against the invisible barrier of the bed’s Maginot Line. “Slayer, I would be more than happy to eat you out every night. I will lick and suck and kiss and fondle and worship every single one of your erogenous zones, make you come and come and come until you can’t even remember your name, and then I will _fuck_ you and make you come ten times more. I want to take you from behind, want you to ride me, want to fuck you standing and sitting and lying down, want to go through every position of the Kama Sutra and invent hundreds more of our own. I want _you_ , naked and willing and hot and wet, with murder in your eyes and rapture on your lips, fucking me harder than I’m fucking you, squeezing me until I burst.” He lounged back again. “That clear enough for you? Because I can fill in more of the blanks.”

And Buffy was back to wanting to fling herself at him, because after months of having to beg and plead just for her boyfriend, who supposedly loved her, to take the time to give her just _one_ orgasm, the sexapalooza that Spike was describing for her sounded like absolute heaven.

But she couldn’t let him know that, because the second he knew she was even tempted, officially and consciously, she would lose. So she turned up her nose with a sniff. “You’re disgusting, Spike.”

He shrugged. “Just pragmatic, love. I like existing.” He grinned. “Also incredibly fond of sex. Of all kinds, including oral. And I’ve had a hundred years to practice.” He traced that line, that damnable invisible line, back and forth. Buffy could almost feel his blunt finger tracing along her folds. Teasing them open. Delving deeper.  Delicately tracing that stupid black-lacquered fingernail right _there_. “I have been told I have a natural talent, which I have honed to perfection. Would make it worth your _while_.”

Buffy had never imagined the word ‘while’ as naughty, but the way Spike said it conjured up a dozen hidden meanings, all of which were pervy. She slid her thighs together, inhaling deeply at the urgent pressure.

Dear _god_ , if someone didn’t touch her in the next thirty seconds, she was going to _die_. And out of the two people in the room, there was only one _sane_ prospect.

With a final effort of will, she rolled off the bed, snatching clean clothing out of her open suitcase and walking into the bathroom in what she desperately hoped didn’t look like an unseemly rush. “I would have to be crazy to say ‘yes’ to that!” she tossed over her shoulder as she headed for a pressing rendezvous with her _very_ best friend, the detachable shower head.

As she closed the bathroom door firmly behind her and slid a desperate hand down into her pajama pants, coming hard mere seconds after her finger struck her swollen clit, she heard Spike chuckle.

It was obviously too much to ask of whatever higher power existed that he _not_ notice that she also hadn’t said “no.”

Maybe Buffy should have found religion sooner.

 

End Chapter 5

 


	7. Chapter 6: Vision of a Kiss

Spike was feeling mellow as he dressed, cheerily whistling the Tin Man’s song from _The Wiz_ as he did so, imagining the Slayer thoroughly lubricating all his parts. As the man said, Crisco would do just fine, but he had a feeling the slayer would be able to provide all the lubricant needed. She could slide some oil to him any time.

Buffy was frigging herself in the shower again – he could hear her stifled gasps over the sound of the water – and he knew that she was thinking about him as she did so, whatever her protestations, so as far as he was concerned, he was more than halfway to a get-out-of-staking-free card, and he was confident he would easily take care of the other half as soon as she succumbed to temptation and let him have at her juicy nethers. Spike knew well that the slayer was a sentimental sort, and he had a good idea that once he’d enjoyed free rein of her erogenous zones, regardless of how things developed afterwards, she would be squeamish about dusting him. Just look how long The Great and Bountiful Forehead had lasted – and still was lasting, off doing his noble act in the-city-most-appealing-to-his-ego – after just one bout of ham-handed vanilla fucking. And Spike was pretty sure, from the hints she had dropped, that Angel hadn’t even made Buffy come _once_ before embarking on his run of torture and murder.

Spike was anything but vanilla, and he was hoping to earn a monument. Something tasteful in marble. Preferably blatantly phallic.

But in a classy way.

He was still tired – he had stayed up late watching that movie-musicals channel Buffy had thought to torture him with, since they had segued right into _Brigadoon_ – but he had every intention of staying in Buffy’s field of vision as much as possible today. Keep her eyes on the prize, so to speak. His mission this weekend was worth a little fatigue. Not to mention, flirting with the slayer was turning out to be surprisingly entertaining. She was a challenging mix of vulnerability and resistance, keeping him on his toes, and he’d bet a dozen Siamese that she would be hot as lava in bed. If he didn’t hate her so much, he’d probably like her.

So fuck sleep. He’d sleep when he was dead.

Well. More dead.

***

Buffy decided about halfway through her shower to just ignore Spike for the rest of the weekend.

Real-Spike, at least. Real-Spike was a jerk and a vile betrayer and annoying to boot. Not to be confused with Fantasy-Spike, who had inspired at least five – Buffy shuddered – no, _six,_ sharp, desperate orgasms over the course of the shower so far.

Fantasy-Spike was always welcome.

Pretending that there were in fact two Spikes – one of whom she wanted to kill, the other of whom she wanted to screw – was doing wonders for her equilibrium. Real sex with Real-Spike was undeniably a Bad Idea, bound to end in misery. Whereas fantasy sex with Fantasy-Spike was guilt-free, totally okay to indulge in. Right this very moment, Buffy was imagining Fantasy-Spike standing behind her in the shower, gently urging her to bend at the waist so he could take her from behind.

Buffy had never been _taken from behind_ – she had once suggested it to Riley and he had reacted like she was the Whore of Babylon, the jerk – but something about the phrase “taken from behind” just sounded really raw and erotic, and when she bent over experimentally, letting her feet scoot out to the edges of the tub, she felt indescribably naughty, though she wondered about the logistics of it all. Would he grab on to her hips, or put his hands on the tile wall? How was she supposed to move? And with Fantasy-Spike several inches taller than her, with longer legs, would he have to bend his knees? That seemed awkward. Maybe it would work better if she were down on the ground, on her hands and knees, or draped over the edge of the tub, or maybe she could just invite Spike in to the bathroom and see if he had a preference. Maybe he liked bending his knees. Maybe he would just bend his knees all the way, kneel down behind her and run his tongue all over her and…

Buffy suddenly realized that she wasn’t imagining Fantasy-Spike any more, she was definitely imagining Real-Spike, saying something profane and infuriating into her crotch as he dug his fingers into her hips in her bent-over scenario, and did that mean she was cheating on Fantasy-Spike by having fantasy sex with Real-Spike? Because she was really seriously imagining it, fingers frantic as she brought herself off again, and she wondered if Fantasy-Spike minded, or if she wanted him to mind. Maybe Fantasy-Spike and Real-Spike could fight over her. Naked. With oil. And then the nicely-lubricated winner – hopefully a little bloodied up from the match – could _take her from behind_. Yeah, that could work.

She was halfway to calling Spike in to get started on the Battle Royale when she remembered that she couldn’t have Fantasy-Spike and Real-Spike fight over her, because only one of them was actually real.

It was a damn shame.

***

Buffy’s cunning plan to ignore Spike lasted about as long as it took her to walk out of the bathroom, because he still had his shirt off, his back to her as he rummaged in his duffel, and _holy crap_ did he have a nice back, cut with muscles but not bulky, and she had to use all her ignoring-energy just to keep from stalking across the room and running her tongue right up the length of his spine. He turned at her entrance and looked at her, eyes widening with what she hoped was appreciation, because in the interest of delaying leaving the bathroom she had spent a really long time on her hair, and she was pretty sure it looked fabulous, on top of her having that I-just-came-ten-times-in-the-shower glow about her.

The way Spike was looking at her made her want to go to eleven.

Thankfully there was a knock on the door before she could do anything rash, and Willow was on the other side, bright-eyed and relaxed. “Ready for breakfast?” she chirped in a voice that implied that she, too, was powered by tantric energy this morning, though probably not solo tantricity. Tantricness?

“You bet,” Buffy bubbled back determinedly. She glared at Spike. “Get a shirt on already.” Spike’s front view was just as lickable as his back, and she was running out of resistance.

Spike grinned as if he knew just why she was so eager to see his chest covered, slowly pulling a fresh shirt over his head and sauntering to the door. “I’m coming, Slayer,” he replied in a cheerfully insinuating voice.

She probably should have stepped back so he couldn’t brush against her on his way out the door, but she didn’t, and he did, and she couldn’t even feel sorry afterwards, walking down the hall with everyone, because she was – god help her – starting to think maybe Spike’s idea wasn’t too bad. This weekend was her vacation, the only one she was likely to get this summer, and maybe what she really needed was a vacation from being _good_.

She wanted to be just a little bit _bad_.

Maybe just a kiss.

Just one.

***

God-fucking- _dammit_.

Spike glared at the breakfast counter, brows knit in frustration as he stirred his Styrofoam cup of cocoa. What kind of fucking establishment considered it remotely fucking acceptable to put out fucking packets of hot chocolate and hot water, and then neglect to provide fucking mini-marshmallows to complete the fucking drink?

_A fucking crappy establishment, that’s what kind._ Spike added the hotel to his list of Management To Complain To, right after fucking Outback.

He had known of course that the complimentary Continental Breakfast would, by definition, not provide the hearty meats and vegetables of a proper English fry-up – certainly he had not expected any black or white pudding, or kidneys, because Americans had fucking deplorable taste in breakfast food – but he had been willing to settle for jelly donuts or a bear claw, since he had already had a goodly serving of blood back at the room, and had merely wanted a decent cup of hot chocolate with some sodding mini-marshmallows to top off the meal. Mini. Fucking. Marshmallows. Was that really too much to ask?

Fucking cheapskates.

He snagged a comment card off the counter and brought it back to the table with his steaming cup of disappointment.

***

Buffy surreptitiously watched Spike across the table as he scribbled something on a notecard, a sulky expression on his face. He was pouting, which should have looked weird, but just made him look adorably kissable.

Now that she had gotten it in her head that allowing herself a bad, bad kiss – probably more than one, if she were totally honest – would be an acceptable compromise between complete denial and Spike’s Sexapalooza, it was all she could think about, her mind swirling with visions of his lips on hers. She knew Spike was a good kisser – much as she had tried to block the memories of that awful spell of Willow’s, she had been reminded of it every time Riley had kissed her with his boring Midwestern lips, because he just didn’t measure up. In fact, it suddenly occurred to her that even if Riley had been willing to go down on her, he probably would have just applied the same snore-worthy technique as he did up top, whereas if Spike’s kissing technique was an indicator of what he was capable of down below… _whoa mama_.

Buffy resolutely slammed the door on that train of thought. The question on the table was _to kiss or not to kiss_. Anything else was currently moot.

Anya had been talking for a while, rhapsodizing about something having to do with the bed and how it compared to the hide-a-bed in Xander’s basement, and Buffy was suddenly yanked out of her pleasurable kissing visions by the sound of her name. She blinked and noticed that Anya was looking at her expectantly, like she had asked a question. Everyone else was looking at Anya like she had just announced she was voting for KKK Grand Master David Duke, except for Spike, who was grinning again as he topped off his hot chocolate with the contents of his flask.

Somehow Buffy knew she wasn’t going to like the question, whatever it was. But she still had to ask. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, I was just wondering how you and Spike enjoyed your bed. Ours was very fluffy and large. Lots of room to maneuver.”

Buffy refused to look at Spike. “Ours was also large.” _But apparently not large enough._ She was not going to touch the idea of _enjoyment_. Spike took in a breath like he was going to add some commentary, so she hurried on. “So, what should we do today? The dinner cruise leaves just after sundown, so we have all day.”

“Is there a pool?” Tara spoke around a mouthful of bagel.

Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “Probably.” She suddenly had an idea. “We might want to take a nap, too, the concert starts really late.” She stole a glance at Spike, who was looking at her steadily. She wondered if it was obvious she was trying to set up an opportunity for some smooching.

She wondered if she would be able to resist doing more.

She wondered if she really wanted to.

***

There was indeed a pool, and water fun was happily agreed on by everyone, except Spike, who snarked that he had this thing about the sun and not burning up in it. But upon investigation, they discovered a large shaded veranda, and as Buffy was still not keen on leaving Spike with unsupervised access to room service and the honor bar, she decreed that he would just have to hang out in the shade, and they trooped upstairs to change into swimsuits.

Spike sulked for a bit about being bored, but shut up abruptly when Buffy came out of the bathroom in her string bikini. She had almost decided for sure to go ahead with the kissing thing later on in the afternoon – almost – but she wasn’t going to make it easy on him; she fussed over her swimsuit, pulling out bits of it for minor adjustments until she was pretty sure he had seen everything there was to see, just in tiny miniscule flashes, and from the slightly stiff way he walked down the hall to the elevators, she was fairly certain he was feeling it.

The problem was, she was feeling it too.

The pool water was just the right temperature, cool enough to counteract the heat of the summer sun without being chilly, and wasn’t too crowded; some younger children were playing a game of Marco Polo in the shallow end, and so the Scoobies ended up hanging on the edge of the pool in the deep end, chatting.

Buffy’s eyes kept drifting to the little alcove in the shade where she had dragged a lounge chair for Spike, far enough under that he didn’t have to worry about the sun for hours. He had started out watching Buffy, a secretive smile on his lips, but after a while he had fallen asleep, and in repose his face was peaceful and boyish, his jaw relaxed and his cheekbones soft, and Buffy wondered what he would do if she went over there now and woke him up with a gentle kiss.

Then she wondered what he would do if she went over there now and woke him up with more than a kiss.

She wasn’t going to do it, not here, because she was pretty sure the parents of the Marco Polo kids would complain about aggravated PDA, but she couldn’t help but be curious. Spike had always seemed hard and brittle to her, sharp, but he had once kissed her softly, she remembered it, and now she wanted them both, wanted the soft kisses and the hard kisses and all the kisses in between, and she realized that she had decided that kissing was definitely happening sometime this weekend, and it felt right.

She was going to kiss Spike.

And then she’d think about the rest of it.

***

Spike startled awake to see the slayer standing next to the lounge chair, hands on her hips, hair tangled and damp. She smelled of chlorine and arousal, her face was wet with sweat and her eyes slightly unfocused, face suffused with lust, and Spike was instantly hard, despite the sounds of laughter and splashing from the pool nearby.

She stood there, breathing hard for what seemed like forever, then abruptly swung her leg across him. Spike recoiled automatically, eyes screwed shut, expecting her knee to crash into his nose, but instead there was a light thud as her foot landed on the Saltillo tile, and he looked up again to see that she was straddling the tongue of the lounge chair, her calves on either side of his hips.

“Show me,” she whispered.

He ran his eyes up her body, lingering on the string ties of her bikini, her taut stomach, her quivering chest, up to her determined face. “Show you what, love?” he purred.

“You know what,” she said, face tinged with pink.

Spike set his hands on the outside of her calves, slowly running them up towards her hips. Buffy’s chin dropped to her chest and she inhaled, eyelids fluttering. Her skin was warm and smooth. “Say it.”

She quivered as his hands reached the ties of her bikini. “Show me what the fuss is all about,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

Spike sat up slowly, letting the moment drag out until he pressed his lips in a tender, chaste kiss, right at the center of Buffy’s bikini bottom. She whimpered, and he kissed her there again.

The fabric was damp from pool water, and from more than that, the scent of _Buffy_ barely masked by the chemicals, and Spike explored the fabric with his tongue, feeling out Buffy’s contours. God, she was hot, like fire under his tongue, her clit already hard and pulsating, even through the fabric. Her hands were over his now, on her hips, and he slipped the tails of the string bows between her fingers.

“Untie them,” he said, letting his lips brush against her as he spoke.

He could feel her nod, and her hands left his, pulling on the strings, the bows unraveling slowly under his fingers as he kissed her through the fabric, and then it was free, the bikini only held up against her by his mouth, and he delicately took it in his teeth and let it fall, and she was bare before him, pink and glistening and perfect.

“Say you want this,” he murmured. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” Buffy said softly, fingers coming back to tangle in his. “Just see how shaky I get.” And she _was_ shaking, trembling with anticipation.

In a moment of lucidity, Spike knew this had to be a dream, that this wasn’t really happening, but far be it from him to pass up a delicious vision, though as he let his tongue part her like waves of silence and mystery it was bittersweet, knowing that even as he tasted her he didn’t know the truth of what she tasted like, knowing that the truth had to be better. But he begged the vision not to shatter anyhow, seizing the wilderness of the moment and giving Dream-Buffy what she wanted, until she came quivering on his tongue.

Then somehow she was riding him, fucking him in the lounge chair, hard and fast, until Spike’s eyes were rolling back in his head, and yeah, it had to be a dream because it was suddenly night and the sunshade was gone, the moon and the stars overhead and Buffy’s naked body all turned to silver in the moonlight, the roll of her hips like the movement of the moon, secret and inevitable.

“How long?” she asked, biting her sweet lips.

“Ever since we met,” Spike gasped.

She smiled at him serenely. She was all made of fire, and Spike could feel it welling up in him, and he sat up to kiss her, kissing and kissing, and she kissed him back like she meant it, like Spike had never been kissed before, not once, and he drove into her over and over until he came apart inside her, weeping from the power of it all, and he looked up at the sky with her as a wave of huge white birds flew overhead.

“Look, Spike,” Buffy whispered. “I know our souls will fly.”

He didn’t have a soul, but it still filled him with awe. “Buffy, I love you,” he said brokenly. “God, I love you so much.”

And he woke up to the sounds of the pool and the smell of chlorine and the knowledge that he had just come in his jeans, in his sleep, like a bloody teenager, and the first thing he saw was Buffy laughing in the sunlight. She was glowing.

“No,” he whispered in horror. But he couldn’t deny what had happened in his dream, what it was telling him.

Spike was in love with the slayer.

_God, please no._

 

_End Chapter 6_


	8. Chapter 7: Too Much To Think About

Spike was acting weird.

Buffy had basically completely made up her mind to kiss Spike at the earliest opportunity, and to make that opportunity happen as soon as humanly possible, but when she and the gang had had enough of the sun and cool water and she had come to wake him from his nap in the shade, he had just looked at her with beetled brows and furious eyes, as if she had kicked his hellhound. (Now that she thought about it, she really hoped that doglike demon she had slain a few days back hadn’t been Spike’s beloved pet – but she would have expected him to mention it sooner, if so, and also she would have expected a spiked leather collar rather than pink rhinestones… Would Spike be the type to name his own dog Spike? And put a spiked collar on him? Because that would be a little bit weird, but at the same time she could see him doing it just to be ironic. If he had a dog. Which he probably didn’t.) But anyhow, Spike had glared at her furiously for a long, silent moment – _silent!_ Spike was never _silent!_ – and then looked fixedly at the tile, damp with footprints now, and shrugged like he was embarrassed when Buffy suggested they head back to the room for a nap before the concert. And not said a word.

Which was really disconcerting, because Buffy had been expecting some sort of dirty innuendo that she could use as a springboard to get to the kissing, and now she didn’t know what to do.

Now they were standing in the hotel lobby, all six of them, but Spike was riffling through the little stand of tourist brochures and giving her little sidelong looks that were anything but flirty, and Tara was suggesting a walk along the beach, and all Buffy could think about was kissing, and how that couldn’t possibly happen on the beach in the afternoon. Not without a fiery ending.

“You guys go,” she said, hoping her voice sounded regretful instead of eager. “I need to make sure Spike doesn’t do anything evil and expensive.”

Xander glared at Spike then. “I’m sure Chip off the Evil Block here can behave himself, given the proper motivation.”

Spike sniffed. “Sod off,” he muttered, flashing Buffy another unreadable look. “I’ll do what I please.”

Buffy smiled reassuringly at the Scoobies. “It’s okay, I’ll take care of things here. I didn’t sleep so well last night anyhow. I could use a… nap.” That earned her a hot look from under Spike’s eyelashes, though he looked away quickly.

Anya rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not like we got lots of sleep either, what with all the sex.” Willow elbowed her, and she sighed in exasperation. “Sorry, I forgot that I’m not supposed to rub it in.”

“I can keep an eye on Spike,” Tara volunteered, though she looked terrified. “You should get some friends-time.”

“No!” Buffy interjected, feeling her face turning red.  “No, no, no, that’s not at all necessary. I’m the slayer. Making sure Spike, um, _behaves_ is my sacred duty.” She smiled again. “I’ll have plenty of fun at the concert, so don’t worry about me. I’m good.” _But also planning on being bad. Very, very bad._

There were a few more token protests, but Buffy really wanted alone time with Spike, and none of the others wanted to be alone with Spike, so it was quickly resolved, and as the happy couples headed out the door, Buffy took Spike by the elbow and tugged him towards the elevator.

He still wouldn’t look her in the eye. “No need to get rough,” he said in a pissy voice, then gave her a grouchy sidelong look. “Bitch.” He dropped his eyes, as if he felt bad about his language, which made Buffy instantly suspicious, because he couldn’t possibly feel bad about anything, least of all swearing.

“Shut up, Spike,” she said, for lack of a clever comeback.

He shut up.

What on earth was _wrong_ with him?

***

Buffy was acting weird.

Willow was feeling a little bad about how she got to have smoochytime with Tara, and Tara got to have smoochytime with her, and Xander got to have smoochytime with Anya, and even Anya got lots of smoochytime that she probably didn’t deserve, but of course Buffy didn’t have anyone to have smoochytime with and instead she had to babysit Spike just so they didn’t get stranded in Los Angeles or stuck with a huge bill for their free hotel stay, and that really wasn’t fair to Buffy. But on the other hand, it was so nice to be walking along the beach with Tara, hand in hand, as the fluffy clouds started to turn pink with impending sunset, so she really didn’t want to be the one to babysit Spike herself, she wanted her romantic sunset, and Buffy obviously totally understood that. She was the best friend ever.

But she was still acting weird. Because if Willow didn’t know better, she would think… But she did know better. Buffy might be single now, but she wasn’t _desperate_.

Xander and Anya had stopped to cuddle on a bench way behind her and Tara, which was good, because Anya’s voice was about as not-romantic as a voice could be, and meanwhile Tara was all soft and sweet by her side, and maybe they could duck under that dock over there for a little bit more privacy, because Tara smelled wonderful and was hugging her arm in that wanting-to-snuggle way, and giving her that sultry side-eye that she had to know Willow was a big old sucker for, and after last night Willow was kind of in the mood to give a little love back, because _damn_.

But just as she had turned to take Tara’s other hand in hers, walk backwards into the shadow of the pilings, a worn figure came up next to her, catching her by the sleeve of her coverup.

“Can’t you read the signs?”

Willow started, stepping back into the surf, because that seemed like the sort of thing a crazy person would say before setting off on a rant about the end of the world – and Willow had been there, thank-you-very-much, she didn’t need a reminder – but when she turned, the person who had snagged her looked mostly sane, a kindly, rounded woman with a floppy hat and greying mid-brown hair and denim capris and a look of genuine, probably-not-insane concern on her face.

“There’s signs?” Willow replied automatically, scanning the beach.

The woman nodded. “Look there.” She pointed to the nearest piling, which Willow now noticed had symbols chalked on it. “The spearhead tells you to defend yourself, and the three diagonal lines tell you it’s not a safe place.”

Willow frowned at the symbols, then at the woman. “Really?”

The woman nodded enthusiastically. “There’s been a lot of ‘Bos gone missing that was jungling around here. Me and Dakota Keith been investigating and putting up signs. Kinda feel it’s our royal duty.” She waved vaguely down the beach, indicating a thin man in worn jeans who was frowning down at the sand.

There was a lot Willow didn’t understand about what the woman was saying, but that last bit was the easiest to latch on to. “Royal duty?” She edged a little bit away, because that was starting to sound like the crazy again.

But the woman laughed self-deprecatingly. “Oh, we’re not really royal,” she assured Willow. “And neither of us even made it to the convention last year, so we’re not even the current models. That’s New York Slim and Cinders. But Dakota Keith, he was elected Hobo King twice, and I been Queen three times. Last time for me was ninety-six, and Keith was ninety-four.”

Willow just nodded, because there really wasn’t anything she could say in the face of the revelation of hobo royalty. It was a good thing Tara’s hand was warm and firm in hers – though Tara was staring further down the beach, squinting against the low sun – because otherwise she would think this was just a weird dream and any second now the barnacles on the dock were going to start singing “It’s a Small World After All.”

The kindly former Hobo Queen had turned to look off at the shadowed dock, face worried. “New York Slim and Cinders been catching out on the east coast lately, for the cotton, and Hobo Lump, she’s out in Memphis, so we got seniority out here. Dakota Keith’s been working the fields, and my beads always do good with the California crowd.” She smiled back at Willow, showing a dimple. “I’m Fast Freight Kate, by the way.”

Willow was still confused, not least of all because she was used to being the one with the funny name, and now she felt like her name was actually super boring, and she was a little put out by suddenly feeling like the mundane one, but if she stripped away the names and terms, she was starting to get a picture that wasn’t pretty. “So there’s danger? People are going missing?”

Fast Freight Kate nodded. “Too many to be a coincidence. Asking around, seems like they was all headed this way, padding the hoof and covering with the moon.” Willow’s face must have betrayed her lack of understanding, because the older woman shook her head with an embarrassed smile. “Walking. California beaches are a good place to sleep outside.”

Dakota Keith came up behind Fast Freight Kate, holding out something for her to look at – a beaded bracelet. “Didn’t you make this for Trixie?” His face was seamed with lines, like a walnut, his brown eyes a bit rheumy but piercing; he was wearing a clean but worn T-shirt advertising Britt, Iowa. His crinkly hair was iron-grey, pulled back in a low ponytail.

Fast Freight Kate poked at the sand-coated beads. “Yeah, gave it to her just last week.” The eyes of the Hobo King of 1994 and the Hobo Queen of 1996 met in shared dismay.

Willow looked at the beads too, suddenly cold. “That’s blood.” The sand was crusted over a definite layer of deep red.

Tara’s hand suddenly gripped hers, tightly. “What’s that?” she said in a high voice.

Willow turned to follow the direction of Tara’s gaze, and she saw it too, something huge and red-brown, something rocklike or buglike or something-else-like but definitely _not human_ , scuttling swiftly under the next dock down. It was too far away to say for certain, but if that dock was proportionate to this dock, it had to be at least seven feet, maybe eight in height.

“Oh, crap.” Willow’s eyes flew to Tara’s; she was staring at the blood-caked bracelet now, looking sick. “We need to tell Buffy.”

There went Willow’s plans for sunset smooches.

***

Buffy’s plans for smooches were not going well.

Getting Spike up to the room had not been a problem; he was quiet and sullen and did exactly what Buffy told him to, just when she said it, and it was actually creeping her out, how he had suddenly gotten all obedient and decided not to hit on her anymore just when she had decided that being-hit-on was actually kind of okay, but she tested things in the elevator, pretending to get sand out of her bikini so she could flash her boobs at Spike using the mirrored walls, and while she couldn’t see his face in the mirror, or any of him of course, a quick glance to the side showed that his jeans were back to being uncomfortably tight. So it wasn’t that he didn’t want her anymore. Buffy gave a little sigh of relief as she walked ahead of him to their room, giving her hips a little extra sway. Just in case.

Once they were alone, though, he just sat down on the edge of the bed, sulkily drinking from his flask and determinedly not looking at her. Which was not at all acceptable.

“Spike.” She had wanted to sound seductive, but old habits were hard to break; it came out sharp and annoyed. Which, well, okay, she _was_ annoyed. _He_ was supposed to be seducing _her_.

He looked up at her from the edge of the bed then, eyes hooded. “What now, Slayer?”

This was harder with him looking at her, but she set her jaw stubbornly. “Kiss me.”

Something flared in his eyes, something vulnerable, before he looked away, a cynical half-smile on his face. “What, so you can find an excuse to break my nose?”

She frowned. Was that how he saw her? “No.”

He angled a glance up at her through his eyelashes. “Decided to take me up on my offer?” He curled his tongue behind his teeth suggestively.

“ _God,_ no.” Buffy huffed out a sigh. “Look, I’m still… I haven’t… I don’t want…” She clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides, trying to think of a wording that would make sense, even though it didn’t completely make sense to her either. There was just too much to think about, she couldn’t wrap her brain around it.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Send a telegram when you suss it out. Cartoon Network’s got a Sailor Moon marathon starting in five.” He rolled to his feet, leaning over to pick up the remote from the floor.

“I don’t know!” Buffy said sharply. “I don’t know what I want.” It was pounding in her brain now, the need to make him understand, the need to get his lips on hers.

Spike stopped in the middle of the floor, back to her. “And where does the kissing come in, then?”

Buffy lifted her chin. “You want to make a deal, right?”

Spike was still as a statue, head turned the barest bit towards her. “Yeah,” he said in a low voice.

“So.” Buffy heaved a deep breath. “Convince me.”

He laughed, sharply, then turned and stalked towards her, eyes intense. Too intense. Buffy’s hands came up automatically to block him as he reached out for her. “Whoa there!”

Spike glared at her, outstretched hands starting to curl into fists. “What, change your mind already?”

“No, I…” She suddenly felt shy. “No touching. Just kissing.”

Another laugh and a sardonic grin. “Gotta touch to kiss, love. Or am I supposed to be telekinetic now?”

“Lips…” Hers suddenly felt dry; she licked them, watching Spike’s eyes widen. “Lips only. Just lips touching,” she stated as firmly as she could manage.

Spike looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Just kissing. Right.” He flicked a glance to the bed beside them.

“Not there!” Buffy rushed out, face burning. “We can… We can do it standing.” She had a sudden flash of her imagined scenario from that morning’s shower, and had to close her eyes at the sudden rush of lust. “Kissing. We can _kiss_ standing.

He tilted his head back, giving her a long measuring look. “Put your back against the door, then,” he said finally, stepping forward so Buffy had to take a step back to avoid collision.

“Why?” Buffy asked as he walked her back until the door was hard against her spine.

Spike grinned then, evilly. “In case you get weak in the knees, kitten.” He planted his hands flat against the door on either side of her shoulders, eyes on her lips, and Buffy had to admit the door had been a smart move, because her legs were already starting to tremble. “I’ve kissed you before,” he said suddenly, voice conversational.

“Yes,” Buffy admitted, looking down. “I remember.”

Spike leaned in so his check was just a hair away from hers, lips close to her ear. “Seem to recall you enjoyed it.”

Buffy could feel her breath accelerating. “That was a spell,” she whispered. “The spell made us think we were in love.” And just might have ruined her for all other lips besides the Lips of Spike, but that was beside the point.

Spike’s voice was mesmerizing. “And now?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, _Now we’re not in love, dumbass_ , but it was almost like there was a spell going on after all, a spell woven of his hands boxing her in and his face so close to hers and that look she had seen in his eyes, that lightning flash of vulnerability, and so instead she tilted her head up so her lips were close to his, and breathed, “Now it’s just you and me.”

Spike groaned and set his lips to hers.

_Oh. Oh my goodness._

Now that Spike was in his right mind, not tamed by magic, Buffy had expected him to kiss with the same hard swagger as he walked and talked, but the first brush of his lips was surprisingly gentle, tender and clinging, and it felt so strange, but somehow just right, and as she kissed him back, lips stroking so softly, she felt hypnotized, like she was back in her dream of floating and flowers and sunlight, carefully stoking a warm campfire.

But she didn’t want a floaty dream, she wanted real, she wanted a bonfire on the beach, and when it seemed like Spike was going to spend all day just teasing at her lips, Buffy tilted her head to the side and made an encouraging noise, and it seemed Spike didn’t need any more hints because he growled low in his throat and slipped his tongue in to meet hers and then it felt real all right, real and carnal and luscious, and Buffy had to curl her hands into fists by her hips to keep herself from breaking her own no-touching rule.

She had to break free for air, and was breathing hard against his lips when he spoke again. “Just kissing,” he said in a rough voice.

Buffy nodded with a great effort of will. “Just kissing.”

Spike let out a little hoarse laugh, then leaned in and brushed his lips against her jaw. “Can I kiss you here?” he murmured teasingly.

“I… I guess that’s okay.” She hadn’t been thinking of anything but lips-on-lips when she made up the rule, but she was feeling flexible all of a sudden, and he was obeying the letter of the law.

He trailed a line of kisses down her throat to her pulse, throbbing in her throat. “What about here?”

Buffy tilted her head to the side. “Yes,” she whispered, and let her head fall back against the door so he could worship every inch of her throat. She was gasping now, great heaving breaths, because she knew this was a slippery slope, but she didn’t care so much anymore, she was already imagining the next level down.

Spike kissed her shoulder and her collarbone and back up to her chin before leaning in to her ear again. “You said ‘lips only,’” he said in a voice like silk.

“Did I?” Buffy couldn’t remember; she was seeing stars, flashing in the sky, exploding like a nebula.

He slid back to her mouth then, kissing her hungrily, sliding his tongue against hers until she was breathless again, and he pulled back to look her right in the eyes. “Let me use my tongue, too.”

God, she was in deep, deep as the night. “You just did,” she said shyly.

He narrowed his eyes, then leaned over and licked firmly up the column of her neck. Buffy felt a whimper bubble up in the back of her throat as Spike pulled back again, eyes hard on hers. “Can I?” he pressed.

“God, yes,” Buffy breathed, and he grinned ferally and bent to her throat again, and she hazily reassured herself that tongues were an important part of kissing and she had said ‘just kissing’ and so this was totally exactly what she had intended to allow all along.

He kissed down her arms and she opened her fists and held out her hands so he could kiss each finger, and, well, maybe the sucking part was a little bit across the line, sucking wasn’t technically kissing, but she decided that was another area where flexibility was called for, because her fingers really needed to be sucked on, one by one, his tongue swirling around each before he moved on to the next, and then he was kissing down the very center of her chest, and she knew she should stop him when his lips started to travel to the side, but instead she let herself careen right down the slippery slope, and when his lips were hovering over her breast, as if waiting for permission, she only sighed _just kissing_ and he sighed right back, cool breath washing over her still-damp bikini and then his lips were on her nipple, licking and sucking her through the fabric and she was making noises that she couldn’t think of a word for, sounds that were kind of embarrassing, or maybe really embarrassing, but she didn’t care anymore, not at all,  and when Spike’s lips traveled to the edge of her bikini top, pushing it to the side bit by bit, she shifted and tilted her ribcage to help until her breast was all the way out in the open air, Spike looking at it as if it were the Holy Grail.

His eyes flashed up to hers, uncertain for a moment, and she took a deep breath and nodded, and he groaned and bent to swirl his tongue around her hard nipple, cool and wet and knowing, and as she arched into his mouth she realized his arms were shaking on either side of her, trembling like an earthquake, his hands fisted against the door now, and she was shaking too, tremors rippling out from her epicenter, from the very core of her, and Spike’s lips traveled hungrily to her other breast, not even trying to take it slow this time, shoving the fabric aside and inhaling her, sucking her nipple deep, and Buffy broke her own rule and sank her hands into his hair, chanting something unintelligible under her breath, something like _yesyesmoregodpleasemoredon’tstopmoregod_ but with groans and curses and whimpers mixed in, and his lips left her breast and he was kissing down to her stomach, her breath was hitching in anticipation and his hands were on her hips now, fingers tucking under the edge of her bikini bottom, digging into her ass, and she should tell him to stop because he had broken the rules but she wasn’t going to, she wanted more, she wanted him to break _all_ the rules, and he stopped at her navel, pressing his forehead into her belly, cursing softly as he hiked her leg up on his shoulder, and it was time, she was going to let him, he was going to show her _what the fuss was all about_ –

And he froze, his lips an inch away from her as a knock came on the door.

“Buffy?” It was Willow, and she sounded upset, and Buffy looked down at Spike in muddled dismay, because if Willow was upset, Buffy couldn’t go on, no matter how much she wanted Spike to never, ever, ever stop. Upset-Willow trumped _everything_.

Spike had a look on his face, though, that made her want to cry, a broken look like he had lost something he knew he would never get back, but somehow hard, like he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t wanted it in the first place. So she took him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet and kissed him, hard and fast. “I’m convinced,” she said softly, watching his wary eyes soften with what looked like relief.

Then she adjusted her bikini back to where it belonged, gave Spike a quick nod as he turned and headed back to his duffel bag – noting with satisfaction that his jeans were even tighter than on the elevator – and opened the door.

“Hey, Willow, what’s up?” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage when she was still shaking with unrelieved lust.

Thankfully, Willow didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “We got trouble, Buffy. Big trouble in Little River City, which is to say right here.” She frowned, eyes adorably confused. “Also, did you know there’s such a thing as a Hobo King?”

 

End Chapter 7


	9. Chapter 8: Deadbeat Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to The Moonmoth for her stellar betaing & constant inspiration!

Spike lay on his stomach, chin on his folded arms, and glared futilely at the back of the door, the door that he was vaguely surprised was not on fire from the heat he and Buffy had been generating, the door that the slayer had just moments before jauntily sailed out of with barely a parting glance, tossing a cover-up over the sweet black bikini that should by rights be dangling from a lampshade by now along with his jeans and his shirt and the last shreds of Buffy’s virtue.

So close. So fucking _close_ , and now he’d be lucky if the slayer let him within ten feet of her, once she’d had time to actually _think_. Because yeah, sure, she’d _said_ she was convinced, but that didn’t mean a stroll in the harsh light of day wouldn’t _un_ convince her, leaving him and his raging hard-on high and dry. Instead of deep and wet, so very deep and so very, very wet…

Bloody buggering fuckety-fuckety- _fuck_.

Hell, the thrice-holier-than-thou slayer hadn’t even trusted him to stay in the hotel room alone (which would have at least allowed him a satisfying wank to take the edge off) but had left him under the care of a sodding _babysitter_.

He slanted his glare back over to her, where she perched on the edge of the bed, eyes huge and wary. Red’s girl. He barely knew her, just the barest of facts, that she was Red’s girl and a Wicca, and that her name was Tara, and that she liked to sing all the parts of the music in the car, changing her voice with each character, giggling when she sang the low bits, but apparently she knew all about him, from the way she was eyeing him, and he bared his teeth at her in a grin.

“Have a lovely walk, pet?” he drawled in his most sinful voice, the one that had lured victim after victim into inviting him home for a bite.

Tara lifted her chin with patently false bravado. “Yes, th-thank you.” Her voice was carefully polite, but she dropped her eyes at the end. “I like the beach.”

“Do you, now.” Spike narrowed his eyes, debating the entertainment potential of baiting her further, just to relieve his frustration some, but she was pretty obviously immune to his manly charms, and also pretty obviously knew that he’d been muzzled and couldn’t hurt her, so with an annoyed sigh he took up the remote control and turned on the telly. If he had figured correctly, Cartoon Network should’ve just finished up with the saccharine Ann and Alan shite and moved on to the good episodes with Wicked Lady, which always reminded him of Dru at her best.

Tara started at the sound of the television, but then looked up with interest. “Oh, Sailor Moon?” She relaxed a little. “I didn’t know you liked this.”

Spike glared at her again, but fuck if he was changing the channel just to salve his manly ego. “Got layers, don’t I?” he grumbled. “Can watch what I sodding well want to.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Tara rushed to reassure him. “I like it too.” She shifted up to sit cross-legged on the bed beside him, leaving a good foot between her knee and his shoulder.

They watched in silence for a while, until at a commercial break Tara turned to him with a determined smile. “So, who’s your favorite Sailor Scout?”

“And who says I have a favorite?” Spike growled.

“Oh.” Tara turned quickly back to the screen. “I like Sailor Pluto,” she finally said shyly.

Spike sent her another sidelong glare, and sighed. “Mars,” he muttered grumpily. She was feisty and bitchy but sensitive and loyal underneath and… well, a little like Buffy, now that he thought about it, except with long black hair like Dru. He glowered furiously at the TV screen. So he had a type. “Sodding hate Tuxedo-fucking-Mask though.”

Tara nodded sagely. “I don’t like him much either. He kind of creeps me out, because he’s, like, a college student and Sailor Moon’s barely starting high school.” There was a tenseness to her back that led Spike to believe that there was something more there, but he wasn’t a sodding therapist, so he just shrugged.

They watched in silence for a few minutes.

“Sailor Mars dated Darien, though,” Tara said suddenly.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, she kicked him to the curb later, didn’t she? Him and his fucking roses and his fucking dramatic entrances. Didn’t get taken in for long.”

Tara laughed. “Yeah, she’s a smart one.” She sent him a sly sidelong glance. “She kicks butt, too.”

“That she does,” Spike replied casually, wondering just how much the witch saw after all. You had to watch out for the quiet ones.

***

Buffy was trying very, very hard not to think.

She told herself it was because she had serious slayage to do, and it was a bad idea to get all up in her head when there was monster butt to kick, because she might get distracted and then the monster might get lucky, but she knew she was lying to herself, because the only thought in her head right now, the one she was avoiding so assiduously, was a ticking Doomsday Clock, counting down the minutes until she was done with her duty and could wheedle her friends into making themselves scarce so that she, Buffy, could get lucky with one monster in particular.

It was really just like in the cartoons, where you had a little angel and a little devil on each shoulder, one of them telling you the supposedly-right thing to do and the other one tempting you into doing something you knew you really shouldn’t, except that in Buffy’s case her imaginary shoulder angel looked a lot like, well, Angel, and she was still kind of irritated with him so it made her not want to listen, and then her shoulder devil looked an awful lot like Spike, except Spike wearing very little clothing – none, actually, though her imagination was understandably vague about certain details – and he was looking at her like thunder and lightning, bold eyes inviting her to dance in the rain and go skinny-dipping in the moonlight and all those other things that wild girls did and good girls didn’t.

Well, Buffy-the-good-girl had stayed behind in Sunnydale. Here in L.A. Buffy was going to be a wild girl while she had the chance. Just as soon as she got this… thing out of the way.

She hoped the residents of room 1411 had checked out, because she was pretty sure things were going to get loud.

But anyhow, right at this very moment she and Willow were walking across the shifting sand, towards a couple that Willow assured her were royalty of some sort, though they looked like ordinary people, and so Buffy shelved her naughty, naughty thoughts and took refuge in stock courtesy.

Thankfully Willow was completely on board with polite fiction, stepping forward to make introductions. “Buffy, this is Fast Freight Kate and Dakota Keith.” Buffy held out her hand for a shake.

Fast Freight Kate looked dubious. “Buffy? That’s a name?”

Buffy shook off a flash of memory – cuddled in Giles’s recliner planning wedding invitations – and smiled a little brighter. “So my mother tells me.”

Dakota Keith gave her a measuring look. “Willow here tells us you can…” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, she didn’t rightly say what you can do. Just said she had to get you.”

“I can help,” Buffy said firmly. “Just point the way to where you saw the… thing.” She glanced over at Willow. “You ready?”

Willow grinned crookedly. “Always. Good thing I brought my emergency kit.” She patted the crazy-quilt tote bag slung over her shoulder, which presumably held motherwort and crystals rather than Band-Aids and antiseptic. Or at least in addition to.

Dakota Keith cast a sidelong glance at Fast Freight Kate. “I’ll take you on over, then. Katie, you stay here where it’s safe.”

Fast Freight Kate elbowed him affectionately. “Not on your life, Dakota. If there’s fireworks, you know I want to see the show.”

He shrugged reluctantly and jerked his head towards the nearest dock, shoving his hands in his pockets as he started along the beach with long strides. Buffy had to jog to overtake him, but she managed to pass him up just before they reached the first dock, holding up a hand to halt the former Hobo King in his tracks. “Wait here while I check it out. Wills, cover me.”

“It went under the next dock down,” Willow volunteered, dumping a little handful of powder into her palm.

Buffy grinned over her shoulder. “Yeah, but there’s always the chance it came back this way, or there’s another one. Wouldn’t want it to get the drop on us.” She cautiously edged her way under the barnacled dock, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light as she checked behind each of the pilings. “You said this thing was big, right?” she called back into the sunlight. In the shadow of the dock, she couldn’t see much but jumbled sand and seashells. She hunkered down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it sift between her fingers.

“Humongous!” Willow called back.

Buffy sighed and straightened up, dusting off her hands. “Nothing under here, humongous or teensy.” She was about to head out into the sunshine again – still bright, though the sun was low – when something about the nearest cluster of barnacles caught her eye. She leaned in closer, running a finger along the dark shadow, sniffing the dry flakes that came off on her finger. “There’s blood,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Willow. She scanned the pilings, seeing the splashes and splatters clearly now that she was looking for them. “Lots of blood.” She shivered, bending to wash her finger off in the surf before rejoining the others.

Willow’s eyes were serious when she emerged, blinking in the sunset glare. “So, there was… evidence,” she said with a furtive glance at their hobo companions.

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “Something is decidedly less than good here. Might need to get Spike down here later, see if his, um, expertise on this subject can tell us anything more.” Willow nodded, face grim. Fast Freight Kate was watching Buffy, her face concerned, while Dakota Keith was watching Fast Freight Kate with poorly-disguised devotion. Buffy couldn’t help but smile at his earnest face. “On to the next dock, then?”

They made their way along the water’s edge, Buffy leading. As they approached the dock, Dakota Keith cleared his throat. “Watched the dock the whole time Willow was gone, like she said to. Didn’t see nothing come out.”

Buffy flashed him a grin, noting that he was edging between Fast Freight Kate and the dangerous darkness. “Don’t worry. I’m a professional.” She held out a hand to halt the others and went for her boot knives, just in case. “Stay back while I check it out.”

She stepped into the shade cast by the low sun, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light before heading into the deeper shadows of the pilings. There was a huge, irregular lump in the middle of the darkness, and she circled it cautiously, flicking her eyes around to check all the corners as she approached it.

At first it looked like a huge rock, but as she cautiously circled it, she could see that it was hollow, shaped like a saddle, but bigger, like it was for a horse the size of a hippopotamus. She inched closer, reaching out a hand to test the smooth surface. It was hard, mottled brown, but definitely not alive, and with a final check of the empty space, Buffy grabbed an edge and lugged it back out into the light.

“Jeepers,” Willow blurted out as she saw the thing.

“I think the proper Scooby-approved term is ‘jinkies,’” Buffy quipped as she dusted her hands off again. “No beasties under there, though. Just this.”

Dakota Keith looked embarrassed. “I swear I was watching,” he muttered.

Buffy looked out at the waves. “Whatever it was, it must have gone out into the water,” she reassured him. “You wouldn’t have been able to see it.”

Willow was circling the saddle-thing, which gleamed sullenly in the light. “It’s a carapace,” she said suddenly, eyes lighting up.

“A carry-what?” Buffy frowned.

“Carapace. The, um, head armor of a bug.” Willow knocked on the hard surface. “Like a big beetle, or a crustacean. Something with an exoskeleton. When that sort of animal grows, they have to shed the outside layer so that they can get bigger.”

Buffy’s forehead wrinkled in worry. “So this is the size of the thing’s head? And now it’s even bigger?” _Holy crap._

Willow smiled bravely. “On the bright side, if the bug-thingie just molted, its new shell is probably still soft.” Her voice was a little thin, acknowledging that this bright side was just the barest glimmer, like a glow-stick in space.

Buffy hit the empty shell experimentally. Not a crack. “Good thing I brought my best axe.”

“So there’s a giant killer bug somewhere out in the ocean?” Fast Freight Kate laughed. “No offense, young ladies, but you haven’t been _experimenting_ with anything today, have you?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Drugs are bad,” she stated firmly.

Fast Freight Kate gave her a knowing look. “Doesn’t mean half the people at the concert tonight won’t be on them.” She glanced over at Dakota Keith. “Me and Keith are used to being the only clean ones at the show.”

“You’re going to the concert?” For some reason this seemed weirder to Buffy than the killer-bug scenario.

Dakota Keith nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He cast Fast Freight Kate a shy look. “Promised Katie here a night to remember.”

“Oh, so it’s a date?” Willow smiled knowingly.

“It’s not a _date_ ,” Fast Freight Kate hurriedly corrected her. “We’re just old friends.”

“Friends,” Dakota Keith repeated, a determinedly-casual look on his face.

“Of course,” Buffy grinned, then turned to Willow, continuing in a business-like tone. “Think we should skip the concert to hunt?”

Willow’s face scrunched up in disappointment. “Do we have to?”

Buffy ran a hand along the huge carapace. “We should.” Her face brightened. “But, you know, if there’s going to be an attack tonight, where are all the potential victims going to be?”

Willow nodded in relieved understanding. “At the concert, of course!”

“So that’s where we need to be,” Buffy said firmly. “It’s our duty to protect all those innocent people who just want to enjoy a night of music on the beach.”

“And the fancy boat-dinner, too,” Willow agreed. “You know that’s an awful lot of temptation for anything with mayhem planned. If I were a giant killer bug-”

“Or a crustacean,” Buffy interjected.

“- _or_ a crustacean, I would be all over that. It’s like a floating buffet.” Willow’s face was determinedly serious, with a hint of self-consciousness. She never had been as good at rationalization as Buffy was.

“So it’s agreed. We’re going to go to dinner and the concert, so that we can protect the innocent.” Buffy nodded virtuously. It was wonderful when her sacred duty just happened to fit conveniently into her social life.

Now she just had to work in the getting-Spike-alone part.

***

By the time they made it back to the hotel – interrupting Xander and Anya’s smoochies along the way – the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, and Buffy realized they only had thirty minutes to make it to the boat bistro before it launched, with or without them, so they piled into the elevator and headed up to the fourteenth floor. When Buffy keyed open room 1413, she could hear Tara and Spike having a spirited discussion about… a cartoon? She stomped in. “Guys, we have, like, five minutes to get out the door or we miss dinner.” Tara scrambled to her feet, smiling apologetically at Spike before dashing out. Buffy folded her arms and glared down at Spike. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Spike rolled over onto his back, running a hand down his stomach as he looked up at her, upside-down. “And what exactly am I supposed to be wearing? A sodding tuxedo? Or is it more of a whips-and-leather affair?” His grin was all bravado, but his eyes were wary.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “It’s a beach concert. We’re supposed to wear swimwear, with something over it for the dinner.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be serious. Can you feature me in sodding swimming trunks?” He bit his lower lip, eyes assessing. “Or perhaps you were hoping for a banana hammock?” His hips twitched just enough to attract Buffy’s gaze, and she unwillingly imagined him in a tight black Speedo. _Oh, god._

She brushed the tempting image aside. “What do you usually wear to swim?” she countered.

Spike toyed with the button of his jeans. “Not. A. Stitch.” He shifted his eyes from her face, and Buffy realized that lying on the bed put his face bare inches from her crotch, which he was eyeing like a cat eyed a mouse. “You should try it, love.” He raised his eyes to hers again, and for a brief, wild moment she considered closing the distance between them, just stepping forward and grabbing his head and putting his damnable tongue to better use than talking, but the sound of her friends’ voices in the hall reminded her that they were on a tight schedule, so she just threw her hands up in the air.

“Fine. Wear that. Don’t come crying to me if you don’t fit in.”

“Can take off my shirt,” Spike offered, rolling off the bed and gathering up his cigarettes and lighter and flask.

“You do that,” Buffy said sarcastically, thinking _yes, please._ Then she frowned, remembering the carapace. “Think you can hide my throwing axes in your boots?”

Spike grinned. “Got plans for the foreplay, then?”

“God, Spike, get your mind out of the gutter. They’re for the bug-demons, or whatever they are.” She rushed over to her suitcase, shedding her cover-up and sliding a black flowered sundress over her bikini. No time to fix her makeup, but she slipped a lipgloss and a pair of hoop earrings into her purse before moving on to the _really_ important accessories, tossing a few larger weapons into her duffel and slinging it over her shoulder. Hopefully their VIP passes would allow them to bypass being searched. “We need to be prepped for battle.”

“Be still, my unbeating heart,” Spike purred, leaning past her to snag the smaller axes, sliding them into his Doc Martens. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Oh. My. God.” Buffy grabbed his shirt, pulling him so they were face-to-face. “Spike, we have to leave in _two minutes_. We don’t have time for…”

“Can have you screaming in two minutes, pet,” Spike said in a low voice, leaning into the pull of her hands, and then he was kissing her against the wall, his hands running down the length of her body, hiking her leg up over his hip, and for just a moment she gave into it, rolling her body needily against his, but the handle of one of her weapons was poking painfully into her back, and she pushed him away.

“Dinner,” she said breathily. “We have to go to dinner _now_.”

Spike ostentatiously lifted his hands off her, quirking his eyebrows. “Have it your way, then,” he said easily, sauntering over to dig a square leather satchel out of his duffel. “We’ll go to dinner.”

Buffy glared at him. “What’s in the bag?”

He glared right back. “None of your sodding business.”

“It better not be something evil.” Buffy folded her arms again.

“Not evil,” Spike growled, rolling his eyes. “Just something.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes, suspicious of how he was suddenly looking everywhere but at her. “I’ll beat your ass if it turns out to be something evil after all.”

Spike bared his teeth. “Promise?”

With a final huff of frustration – which she told herself was entirely irritation-at-Spike and not at all wishing-there-was-time-for-naughtiness-with-Spike – she yanked open the door and joined the Scoobies in the hall. “ _So,_ ” she said with a determined, brilliant smile. “Shall we be off?”

***

The sun had just set when they made it down to the lobby, and they managed to get to the boat before the line to board was entirely gone. It was a snappy little yacht, long and sleek, with strung lights wrapped around the rails and ‘80s music drifting out over the waves; Buffy dug their tickets out of her purse as they approached the podium – and froze at the sight of the tuxedo-clad maître d’.

“Angel?”

His jaw dropped like he was in a Tex Avery cartoon. “Buffy? What are you doing here?” He shook himself, giving that little half-smile that she used to swoon over. “Did you come to see me?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Why would I come to see you? Last we spoke, you were being a macho jerk and insulting my boyfriend.” Not that she liked Riley much herself these days, but she had the right to be a little peeved on general principle, especially since the time before _that,_ Angel had hit her and ordered her out of _his city_. “I won VIP tickets to the concert.”

“Oh.” Angel looked down at the podium, clearly disappointed. “Oh, here you are. Summers, table for six.” He laughed half-heartedly. “Of course it’s you.”

Buffy forced a smile. “So, um, you work here now? What happened to Angel Investigations?”

“We’re broke,” said a voice behind Angel, and Buffy leaned out to see Cordelia in a pleated tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and slacks, a burgundy apron tied around her waist. “ _Someone_ went a little overboard on _pro bono_ work, and we all had to find temporary gigs. It was either menial night jobs, or starvation.” She looked daggers at Angel, who shifted into a sullen pout, muttering something about a prophecy and becoming worthy of Shamu.

Buffy sighed. Like she needed another reminder of unsatisfying-sexual-encounters-past. “Whatever. We’re only in town for the weekend so we’ll just have our dinner and get out of your hair.”

Angel shrugged determinedly. “So, did you bring… what was your boyfriend’s name? Mikey?”

“Riley,” Buffy corrected automatically. “And no, I dumped him. He’s off in Guatemala or something.”

Angel looked at her hopefully. “Oh, so you didn’t bring a date?” Buffy was trying to decide whether her alone-time plans for Spike technically constituted a ‘date’ when Angel stiffened in fury, looking over her shoulder. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

Buffy didn’t bother looking over her shoulder. “Spike’s… He’s with me,” she managed.

“He’s _with_ you?” Angel growled.

Buffy folded her arms defiantly. “Yes. With me.”

Angel looked at her in disbelief. “When you say ‘with you,’ do you mean just _with_ you? Or is he _with you_?”

“Look, can we just get on the boat?” Buffy held out her tickets, her jaw set, because she really didn’t want to figure out which of Angel’s ‘with you’ inflections most closely corresponded to ‘sharing a hotel room and planning on sexytimes with,’ and it was none of Angel’s business besides, seeing as _he_ was the one who’d left _her_.

“I, uh…” Angel shuffled the papers on his podium uncertainly, and that was of course the moment that Spike realized what the holdup was and sauntered forward.

“Angel!” he proclaimed, eyeing the tuxedo with unholy glee. “Finally found your calling in the service industry, have you?”

“Spike,” Angel gritted out.

“Yes, we also have Xander and Anya and Tara and Willow,” Buffy hurried to say. “And look! I have six tickets. One for each of us. Can we get on the boat now?”

Angel’s face sank into a mutinous scowl, but Cordelia cleared her throat behind him, and he managed to growl, “Table twelve,” taking Buffy’s sheaf of tickets. Cordelia snatched up a stack of menu cards, sailing off towards the restaurant cabin; Buffy waved half-heartedly at Angel and followed Cordelia onto the boat with a sigh of relief. Spike matched her stride, whistling jauntily.

“I can’t believe him,” Buffy fumed under her breath. “Like he has any say in who I hang out with.”

Spike clucked his tongue. “Unbelievable.” He stepped around Buffy as they approached their table, pulling out a chair. “Allow me, pet.”

Buffy glared at him. “I don’t need your stupid fake-chivalry.” She vaguely noticed the rest of their party taking seats, Xander and Cordelia somehow managing to not acknowledge each other’s presence in the process. _A round of awkward former relationships on the house_ , Buffy thought grouchily.

“Fake?” Spike looked insulted for a moment, then grinned. “All right, you got me, pet.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “He’s still watching us, you know. All brooding and stoic.”

Buffy flicked a sidelong glance back at the podium. Sure enough, Angel was glowering over his shoulder, even as he greeted another couple.

Spike withdrew just enough to meet her eyes. “Must be torment for him, seeing me by your side, taking what he thinks is _his_ rightful place.” He was smiling now, almost tenderly.

Buffy set her jaw stubbornly. “The place he gave up for my own good, you mean?”

“That’s the one.” Spike let his eyelids droop, looking down at his hand as he traced a finger along her bicep. “Am I right in thinking you’d be up for… twisting the knife a bit?”

Buffy cast Angel another glance, thinking about orgasms – more specifically, the lack thereof. “I’m listening.”

Spike grinned. “There’s my girl.” He let his hands fall to the back of Buffy’s chair. “Have a seat, love. We’ll show him what he’s missing any way we can.”

Buffy smiled back, feeling deliciously – and justifiably – catty, and took her seat; Spike scooted her chair back in and solicitously draped her napkin across her lap before taking the vacant seat opposite hers. He lifted his water glass in a toast. “To old friends,” he said facetiously.

She lifted her glass in response.

***

The boat launched a few minutes later, and once their waitress – thankfully _not_ Cordelia – had brought out their complimentary bottle of champagne, the Scoobies settled in to enjoying the unusual atmosphere. The menus were simple; they had a choice of three appetizers, two entrees, and three desserts – though Buffy noticed that one of the options – _mousse au chocolat_ – had been hastily crossed off. The Scoobies ordered quickly, then settled in for Cocktail Hour, watching couples dance to Duran Duran on the central dance floor.

“I feel like we’re crashing a party in Normaltown,” Xander joked, looking around eagerly. “Like, is this what life is like outside of Sunnydale? Because count me in!”

Anya shrugged. “I’d expect this sort of life would require more money than you make at your current job,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Minimum wage doesn’t usually lead to the yacht club.”

“Curse my lack of marketable skills,” Xander said cheerily. “Wanna dance?”

Anya hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “All right. But only if you promise you’ll turn in your resume for that management job at the construction site.” She favored him with a sultry smile. “I _like_ the high life.”

“So say we all,” Xander replied with a grin, and they were off. Tara and Spike had resumed their spirited cartoon argument, which was kind of freaking Buffy out, and after a quick mental run through of _The Breakfast Club_ , Buffy decided Spike didn’t fit any of the traditional 80s-dancing archetypes, so she grabbed Willow’s hand and headed out on the floor. (She herself did a pretty good Molly Ringwald, while Willow usually went with the full Ally Sheedy, but sometimes they switched it up a bit.) You didn’t have to think when you were dancing.

And Buffy was definitely in the mood for continuing not to think.

“We’re wild girls tonight!” she laughed at Willow.

“Wild girls and boys going out for a big time!” Willow agreed.

They got their dance on.

***

Spike couldn’t quite decide which was more delicious, watching Buffy on the dance floor or watching Angel fume, because they were both pretty much the most fun he’d had since getting chipped, other than the parts where he’d actually had his lips _on_ Buffy, which had naturally been the best of all. The only improvement he could picture for the evening would be a rousing brawl, one with adversaries of a non-human persuasion so he could really get his violence on, and perhaps a snifter of O-neg to wash it all down. And then, of course, a little post-party with the slayer. Who inexplicably still seemed interested in Spike’s offer, even after having had plenty of time to second-guess herself. Poor little twig must really be at her limits.

He really had to hand it to Angel – he was doing brilliantly as a wingman, the memory of his sexual inadequacies doing more to drive Buffy into Spike’s waiting arms than he could have accomplished with a thousand innuendos and significant looks. Perhaps he should send the poor sod a thank-you note when all was said and done. Did Hallmark have a card to fit the occasion? Something along the lines of, _Thanks for being too fastidious and soul-burdened to do your woman properly, thereby paving the way for my infinitely more talented and inventive tongue!_ would do nicely.

What was he thinking? Of _course_ Hallmark had a card for the occasion. Hallmark had a card for sodding _everything_. The real question was whether they had one that didn’t pair it with a fucking Precious Moments illustration. Spike was evil, but he wasn’t _that_ evil.

Spike knew better than to think Buffy was _his_ in any way, of course, but he had made her a proposal, and she was giving every sign of planning on taking him up on it. All he had to do was drop the right words in her ear, and the gates of paradise – also known as Buffy’s perfect thighs – would open for him.

The real problem now was that Spike, for the first time in a century, had no idea what to say.

He could look at each girl on the dance floor, clad in various degrees of beach-casual, and spot instantly which were the ones who would melt for a dirty word, which needed an ersatz-soulful gaze, which would fall for a man who made them laugh. There wasn’t a one he couldn’t get off in a dark alley if he put a little effort into it; he had a hundred years of experience with the art of flirtation, the subtle language of sex, the thrust and parry of persuasion.

He looked at Buffy, and his words dried up and blew away.

Why the _fuck_ had his desiccated heart decided this, of all times, was the moment to fall in love? And with the bleeding _slayer_? It was enough to make the most cynical of demons – among which Spike considered himself to be – believe in a god; not a benevolent Creator, though, but a malicious trickster god, Loki planting mischief just where it would cause the most mayhem.

Spike had to give Loki (or whoever it was) kudos; he was a fucking pro.

So instead of furthering his cause with the slayer, he was sitting here at their table, a veritable wallflower, talking to Red’s girl. Though he was thinking of starting to call Willow ‘Tara’s girl’ because the shy witch was a bit of all right. Reminded him a bit of himself, actually, his human self, parts he was happy to be rid of but felt a touch nostalgic seeing in someone else. She had a bit of wit on her, too, sometimes surprising him with a clever riposte. She had clearly twigged to the fact that there was something going on with him and Buffy, and he got the feeling she was at least trying to keep an open mind about it, which was more than he’d expected from any of the Scoobies.

Of course, she had also obliquely let him know that she was prepared to set him on fire at a moment’s notice. Which might actually be why he liked her.

He most definitely had a type.

 

END CHAPTER 8

 


	10. Chapter 9: Bad Influence

Buffy was having a great time dancing until the boat cast off, which apparently gave Angel all sorts of free time; he had started prowling the edges of the room, and it made Buffy feel like the walls were closing in, so when Men Without Hats let out their last  _ Safety Dance! _ she nudged Willow and jerked her head back at their table. “Beverage time?”

Willow nodded and they worked their way off the crowded dance floor to their seats. Spike glanced up at her with a patently false air of surprise – as if she hadn’t been deliberately flaunting her assets in his direction for the past twenty minutes -- his eyes hot. 

Buffy didn’t bother with an explanation, just picked up her ice water and held the glass to her sweaty cheek. Which made Spike’s eyes widen – just a hair, but enough to be interesting – so she bit her lip and ran the glass along her chest, exposed above the scoop neck. 

_ That _ made his eyes narrow, and he gave her a measuring look. “This little show for my benefit?” he said sardonically, eyes flickering to where Angel was lurking. “Or are we tormenting the tux?”

Buffy let the glass drift a smidge lower, tugging her neckline along with it. “Maybe a little of both,” she conceded airily.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Think I might like you after all, Slayer.”

The tone of the music on the dance floor shifted, easing into a slow, pulsing beat. Willow and Tara stopped their whispered conversation at the other end of the table, and drifted out onto the dance floor. Buffy watched them go, feeling uncertain, but when she realized Angel was trying to catch her eye – the look on his face somehow both pleading and smug – she made up her mind, setting her glass down with a thunk. “We’re going to dance.” Spike just stared at her for a moment, and she ducked her head, giving him an  _ Earth to Spike _ look. “Dance? You? Me? I thought we had some knife-twisting to do.”

That brought him out of it, and he nodded sharply, heaving to his feet. “Torment. Right.” He didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere though, so Buffy finally just grabbed his hand and dragged him to the edge of the floor.  It was packed, but being on the edge made them more visible anyhow, so Buffy turned her back resolutely in Angel’s direction and smiled brilliantly up at Spike.

He had a funny look in his eyes – she couldn’t tell if it was indigestion or just plain incomprehension – but the upshot was that he wasn’t dancing, so Buffy linked her hands behind his neck and pressed closer. “Get your hands on my hips, Spike,” she hissed through her fierce grin. “What’s wrong with you?”

Spike tilted an eyebrow and planted both hands firmly on her ass, pulling her right up against him. “How’s this?” he growled.

Buffy suddenly felt parched again. “Better,” she said breathlessly. “But last I checked, dancing involved moving.” 

Spike closed his eyes, dipping his forehead down to meet hers, and started to move.

“Finally!” Buffy muttered against his shoulder, matching his rhythm. “For a guy who spent the last twenty-four hours trying to seduce me, you sure are playing hard-to-get all of a sudden.”

Spike didn’t answer for a long while, finally leaning close to brush his lips against her ear. “I thought you didn’t want to be seduced,” he murmured. “Straight talk only.”

“I also told you to convince me,” Buffy grumbled into his shoulder. He had left the duster back at the table; the cotton of his t-shirt was soft and cool under her cheek.

“And here I thought you were convinced.”

“I was. Am.” She huffed out an impatient sigh. 

“Are you?” Spike’s tone was indulgent, but there was an undercurrent to it that rolled over Buffy like a wave, a rush of power and knowledge, and she lifted her head to look him in the eye. There was something soft in his eyes, something she couldn’t really identify, but it made her shiver.

“Convince me more,” she said softly, and smiled.

***

Spike knew that he wasn’t in heaven. For one thing, the chances of him going to heaven in the first place were as close to zero as made no difference, and for another, if he had somehow died (again) and gone to some sort of paradise, the rest of the bistro crowd would have melted away by now so he could take the slayer up on the promise in her eyes, right here under the mirror-ball, the lights playing over her naked body and his, shining in her eyes…

Well, Angel would still be here. So that he would have to watch. And maybe spontaneously dust on cue once Spike had proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was all the man Buffy would ever need.

But anyhow, the third reason Spike knew he wasn’t in heaven was that he still didn’t know what to say, even with Buffy’s sweet arse right in his hands, her body pressed up against him as they swayed, and so all he could do was hope that silence was golden in this particular case. Or that Buffy would eventually get sick of the silence and get the conversation going again, give him something he could work with.

In the meantime, he closed his eyes and let his body talk for him.

After a moment, Buffy tugged him down so she could whisper in his ear. “Is he watching?”

Spike blinked his eyes open, unerringly meeting Angel’s. “He is indeed, love. If looks could stake, you’d be dancing with a pile of dust.” He allowed his lips to twitch in triumph before deliberately looking down and catching Buffy’s earlobe between his teeth.

She gasped. “What was that for?”

“He can’t hear us over the music,” Spike said softly, taking another nibble. “But he can see well enough. Just putting on a good show.”

“Oh,” Buffy said faintly. “I thought you were… Never mind.”

Spike shifted around to give her other ear some attention. “Should I stop?”

“No! Don’t… don’t stop.”

“You want to be convinced,” Spike pressed. “This is me, convincing.” He gave her ear a tiny, delicate lick.

“I thought you were going to… you know, talk. Give me reasons.”

“Giving you the best reasons, right now. I’m getting you hot.”

“Oh.”

“Is it working?” He gave her arse a tiny squeeze, nearly crowing at the way her hips tilted into it; it was working, all right.

“Maybe,” Buffy laughed raggedly.

Spike tsked. “Don’t get coy now, pet. Yes or no.” He squeezed again. “Am I getting you hot?”

Buffy’s head tilted challengingly. “Can’t you tell?”

“Just want to hear you say it.”

She smiled. “Yes.” Then the music changed, and her face changed with it. “Ugh. Not this song.”

“Got a problem with  _ The Breakfast Club _ ?” Spike snarked. 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “No, but Angel…”

Spike snorted. “Right.  _ Don’t you forget about me _ . Right up his brooding alley.” He shifted into a closer embrace. “I can make you forget about him.”

“Please do,” Buffy said, exasperated.

“Close your eyes,” Spike murmured, wrapping his arms around her back. “Let me tell you a story.”

Buffy curled cautiously into him. “What kind of story?”

Spike smiled into her hair. “A dirty story.” Something he was good at, something safe.

“How dirty?” Buffy looked up at him in mock-disapproval.

“Very dirty,” Spike said seriously. “Full of foul language and lewd suggestions.”

“I think you already told me this story.”

“Perhaps I did.” Spike dropped a light kiss on the part in her hair. “Was it about fucking?”

Buffy’s hands twitched. “Yep, that’s the one.” Her voice was light, but it trembled. 

“Ah.” Spike swayed with her in silence for a bit longer, waiting.

Eventually Buffy curled one hand into a fist, thumped his chest lightly. “Tell it again,” she grumbled.

He was only too happy to oblige.

When the music segued into the next slow song of the set, Buffy interrupted his litany of debauchery with a sigh, her breath hot against his chest. “What are we doing, Spike?”

Spike opened his eyes then, sought out Angel at his corner of the room. Still brooding. “Making your ex burn with envy.”

Buffy made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. “No, not… Forget Angel. He’s not important here. What are  _ we _ doing?”

Spike pulled her a hair closer. “Right now we’re dancing.”

“God, Spike, stop being deliberately dense.”

“Can’t help it, pet. Evil.” Her hands tightened on his neck in a way that implied she was about to toss him across the room, and he relented. “Not rightly sure, love. Thought I was just trying to make a deal here, but…”

“I’m not going to make a deal with you, Spike.” Buffy’s voice was firm, and he felt disappointment curl like a snake in his belly. And that just pissed him off again, that she could even make him feel disappointed, that she had wormed her way inside him and made him fucking  _ feel _ things that she had no intention of nurturing. He wasn’t a fucking supplicant at her holy throne, begging for scraps, and he knew for a fucking fact she wanted what he had to offer, so either she was full of righteous self-denial and martyred virtue… or she was bluffing.

Time to call.

“Right. I’ll just be going, then…” Spike lifted his hands off her, turning towards their table, but Buffy tugged him right back, and he settled his hands at the small of her back.

“Get back here,” she said quietly. “I’m not done talking.” 

He shrugged as if it didn’t really matter.

Buffy stepped just far enough away that she could look him in the face again, eyes serious. “I’m not going to promise not to kill you in exchange for sex. The whole idea is sick.” She bit her lip, eyes suddenly troubled. “I wouldn’t… I don’t think I’d like myself anymore, if I were doing that.”

Spike looked at her narrowly. “Says the lady who just told me to ‘convince her.’”

Buffy’s eyes dropped to his chest, and she swallowed. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to…” She tucked her head under his chin shyly. “I do. Want to.”

“Want to  _ what? _ ” Spike prodded, letting his hands slide down a bit more, back around the sweet curve of her arse.

Buffy was silent for a long time, before laughing shortly against him. “Why is it so hard to say?”

“Want me to say it?”

Buffy nodded.

“You want to fuck me.”

Buffy nodded again, and he shook with the force of his relief. “And the other,” she said quietly. “The… the fuss.”

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving that part out,” Spike purred reassuringly.

“And I’m not going to stake you after,” Buffy said, suddenly confident again. “You know what you need to do to stay alive. No killing. No shenanigans.” She tightened her grip on him again. “No stabbing me or my friends in the back. As long as you’re a model citizen, I don’t have to stake you.”

“Bugger.” That didn’t sound nearly as fun as being the slayer’s love slave.

Buffy smiled up at him again, encouraging. “You could help me out, too. On patrol, and when our annual apocalypse rolls around. Like my other friends do.”

“What, be a bloody white hat? Hardly my style, pet.” Spike looked fixedly at Buffy’s hair, trying to ignore the little thrill that  _ other friends _ had given him, because even if Buffy didn’t realize it, that  _ other _ implied that he was somehow already a  _ friend _ . He wasn’t prepared for that. Even knowing that she probably meant it in the sense of  _ person she was willing to mooch a ride from when drastic measures were called for. _ Coupled with what she’d said just a moment ago, about Angel not being important… well, he didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but it definitely meant something.

“Thought you liked a  _ spot of violence _ ,” Buffy challenged, suddenly flirtatious again.

“I do. And you buggered up my accent completely.” And he was obviously deranged, because her mutilated-Cockney-whatever was simultaneously adorable and hot.

“So. We can both get what we want here. I’m not going to make you  _ service _ me as a condition of you getting to live in my town. That you can get just by being a good boy. And I could always use another ally. Anything else that happens between us is just… separate. Like church and state.” Buffy’s voice had a teasing note in it, and Spike had to admit, the idea of fighting the good fight – easy to reject when Giles had proposed it – sounded a lot better when Buffy said it, especially when she was rubbing her perky tits right up against him like that. But he could worry about all of this when they got back to Sunnydale. Time to get the conversation off the depressing caboose of  _ good works _ and back on the  _ let’s-fuck-tonight _ train.

“I’m not a good boy,” he said in his lowest, most chocolatey voice. “And you don’t want me to be a good boy tonight. You want me to be bad.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “You are bad, by definition.  _ Evil _ equals  _ bad _ . Look it up.” She added a little extra sway to her hips, and he obligingly slid his fingers to a naughtier position. He noticed that she didn’t bother denying what she wanted.

“You’re right. I’ve always been bad.” This was more like it. He ran a finger up her spine, spreading his hand flat between her shoulder blades to pull her chest closer to him. “It’s part of my charm.”

Buffy grinned up at him and turned in his arms, letting his arms slide around her waist. “You’re a  _ bad _ influence.” 

God, her bum was practically grinding up against him, though they were far from the most demonstrative couple on the floor, and he nuzzled into the curve of her neck. “I am a bad influence,” he agreed, lips brushing her ear. “And I’d wager I’m the most fun you’ve ever had.”

She didn’t say anything to that, just let out a little hitching gasp, and they moved together silently for a long time before Buffy turned to face him again, face troubled.

“There’s something I don’t get. About the whole… showing-me-what-the-fuss-is-all-about thing.”

“What’s not to understand?” Spike rubbed his cheek against hers. “You, me, shagging until neither one of us can move, finding out just what makes you come the hardest…”

She quivered at that, but doggedly kept on. “But you’re evil. Really, really evil.”

“Not denying it.” He wondered if he could convince her to say that again later on, when he was inside her…

“So why does it even matter to you if I…come?” She blushed at her own words, clearly not used to frank sex talk, but also clearly turned on by it. “Don’t you just want to… to get off?”

Spike shrugged. “Course I want to get off, eventually. But done enough in my unlife to know that the destination is only part of the fun – and a small part, at that.” He leaned in close again, confiding. “Not being altruistic, here, if that’s what’s throwing you. There’s nothing like the rush of getting my… getting a woman off. The scent, the taste, the sound of your voice… it’s power, love. Power and glory. I can’t wait to find out how you come. Just imagining the way you’ll shake, the way you’ll  _ scream _ …” Spike had to stop there, taking a deep cleansing breath; from the way Buffy’s chest was heaving, she felt the same. He went on, striving for a normal tone of voice. “The men you’ve been giving yourself to… they don’t have it in them to appreciate the wonder that you are, don’t have a sodding clue how to give you what you need.” He splayed one hand out at the small of her back, letting the other glide up to trace her neckline. “Take your soldier boy. He had an idea in his head of what a woman should be, didn’t he? But you’re stronger than him. Faster. Smarter. He couldn’t accept that. Can see how his narrow mind has worn you down. Not allowing you simple, honest pleasure, trying to make you think you were less than you are. Not giving you what you want.”

She shrugged, face suddenly wistful. “Isn’t that just a guy thing? Wanting to be the  _ man _ ?”

“A real man doesn’t hurt his woman right where she’s most vulnerable.” Spike could practically see the thoughts whirling behind her pretty eyes, and took a gamble on honesty. “Of course, not like I haven’t aimed right there myself, back when I was trying to kill you.”

Buffy glared at him, suddenly tense. “I remember. You said I wasn’t worth a second go.”

Spike hurried on. “Knew it wasn’t true, but I needed any advantage I could get against you.” He slid his hand up her chest, palm skating lightly over her hard nipple, and brushed his thumb against her set jaw. “Being a warrior doesn’t make you less of a woman. Just shows the kind of woman you are. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you anything else.” He laughed faintly. “Especially not me.”

Eyes guarded, Buffy pressed her lips together. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” He felt tenderness welling up inside of him at her suddenly lost expression, and laid his palm against her face. “But trust isn’t what we’re about tonight. Look, you know I can’t bite you, can’t kill you or fight you. And I know that’s the least of your worries, isn’t it? You’re not afraid I might bite you. You’re afraid I might  _ hurt _ you.”

“Not at all.”

“Ah, sweetheart, don’t start lying now.”

“I’m not… It’s not lying if I don’t know the answer.”

“But you know I’m right. And you can’t trust me not to hurt you. Trust is something you earn, and my balance book is in the red, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And I bet the fact that you can’t trust me is just making you hotter.” From the look on her face, he was right on target. “You grew up thinking love was all sunshine and rainbows, but that’s not what you’re really about, is it?” He slid his arms around her, so they were pressed together from shoulder to knee, his lips just at her ear as they swayed. “Your love isn’t gentle or submissive, not a bit. Your love’s a grenade.” He could barely speak now, his voice hoarse. “I’ll pull the pin.”

Her face was rigid. “I’m not in… this isn’t love.”

“There’s love, and there’s  _ love _ ,” Spike growled, stung but not backing down. “I know the score here, and so do you. No false pretenses, yeah? We both know the kind of love we’re about tonight.” He gave her a hard look. “Don’t we?” 

Buffy sank into his embrace, and he let out a huge, silent gasp of relief. 

“Is this… Is this a vampire thing?” Buffy said suddenly, voice barely audible over the music. “Because Angel… I felt liked he wanted me to be… girlier.” She pressed her hot cheek against his neck. 

Spike could well imagine how Angel preferred her. He had always had a thing for innocence. “Didn’t light the sheets on fire, did he?” Buffy stiffened against him again, and Spike rubbed her back soothingly. “That’s not on you, pet. Shouldn’t ever have to pretend in bed.” He obligingly turned so that she could see her broody ex while he talked. “Angel… He’s lived twice as long as me. Done things you can barely imagine, with humans and vampires, women and men, even demons when he took the mood. Wasn’t anything too far for him. But then he got his soul. And then he found you. The Chosen One. Bright and shining and pure. ‘Spect he didn’t want to sully you with any of that.” That was taking another huge chance, right there – Buffy might think Angel’s concern for her purity romantic, or chivalrous, and he considered bringing up how Angel used to talk about her, once his soul had taken a powder, plotting the best way to turn all her shining into darkness, a drop at a time, but from the hard look on Buffy’s face as she glared over his shoulder, it wasn’t necessary. He curved his hand around her cheek, guiding her eyes back to his. God, they burned, and it was a struggle not to fall to his knees before her, but he managed a faint, knowing smile. “Me, I think it would take the end of the universe to put you out. I think the only thing honest, freely given pleasure can do to you is make you brighter, and hotter. I think you’ll burn like the sun. You’re glorious, Buffy. I can’t think of anything better than bringing you pleasure, letting you shine like you were meant to.”

It was a line, a line he’d used before, because all his wretched fears would allow him now were lines, lines and innuendos and dirty talk, but looking at Buffy’s face right now, the mingled hope and distrust in her eyes, he realized it was true, and he finally understood why so many women before had fallen for it, let him coax them off into dark corners where he could drain that glow right out of their eyes, until everything about them was dead and cold and dark, like him. Suddenly he couldn’t look at Buffy’s eyes anymore, and he dropped his gaze, hoping he looked seductive rather than terrified. What the hell was  _ that _ feeling? It churned in his gut like indigestion, roiled in his head like fear, but it wasn’t either, it was something new. Something vaguely familiar, but in a distant way, a faint echo of something long past.

Whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t like it. 

***

Buffy knew this was a bad, bad idea, all of this, the dancing and the planning and definitely the sex, but Spike was right about one thing: against all good judgment, she wanted him. She was tired of being told what she should be, living down to other people’s expectations. She wanted to let go.

_ Your love is a grenade _ .

Well, she was going to pull the pin herself.

So to speak.

But she was enjoying this, the being seduced ( _ convinced _ , she amended), the slow burn down in her stomach, and so she drew away, hooking her arms around Spike’s waist. She had no idea what that look on his face was supposed to be now, but she was pretty sure some of it was uncertainty, which was good. He shouldn’t take her for granted, not for a second.

She turned in his arms again, taking his hands in hers and setting them on her hips as she moved against him. “You seem very confident that I’m going to go along with your plan.”

He took her subtle hint and pulled her hips flush against his. “Do I? I’m not confident at all. I know that any second, you could change your mind. Might give me a good beating if you change it hard enough. Not a fool, Slayer. I know it’s just my fantasy. But  _ god, _ do I want it.” His voice was rough, trying hard to be nonchalant but failing. “I want  _ you _ .”

Buffy rolled her head back against him. “I don’t want to want you.”

“But you do.” 

“I do.” She turned to face him again. “But I need a bit more convincing.” She took a deep breath. “What do you think I need, Spike?”

He smiled at that, wickedly. “Me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Details, Spike.”

“Gave you the details last night,” he countered. “And again, just now.”

“That was just mechanics,” Buffy said in a hard voice, though remembering some of the mechanics made her feel faint. “What do I  _ need? _ Make your case.”

Spike looked down at his hands on her hips. “You need to unleash yourself.” His eyes flashed up to hers, then, blazing with something pure and hot. “You keep making yourself into a love offering, bestowing your charms on handsome princes you think are going to rescue you from your ivory tower, when what you really want, what you  _ need _ , is a good grimy fuck from a beast.”

_ No _ , Buffy wanted to say,  _ I’m not like that _ , but even as she thought it she could feel herself quivering. Maybe she was like that. She suddenly remembered Faith, the frank sexuality that had both attracted and repelled her, and she felt foolish for how she had lumped  _ sex  _ in with all of the ways she was different from Faith. Better. Purer. The way Angel and Riley and even asshole Parker had wanted her to be. Now she knew better, she knew she could be a good person and a good slayer, and still dance and laugh and have dirty, delicious sex –  _ a good grimy fuck _ – and just thinking it made her feel free. Liberated.  _ Right _ .

Spike went on, fingers tightening on her. “You’re not a princess, pet. Or at least not the kind that languishes in a tower. You’re a warrior, and you need to fuck like a warrior. You’ve had enough of being sweet and submissive. You need to conquer.”

_ Oh god _ .

She bit her lip, wishing she could start the conquest right there. Right on the dance floor. Oh hell yeah, she was convinced.

Spike knew it, too; his voice dripped triumph. “So, Slayer. Think you can… take me?” 

Buffy parried, feeling her own voice shaking with desire. “Oh, I can take you all right, Spike.”

He nuzzled at her temple. “Not just gonna roll over for you. You may have to get physical.”

“That’s just the way I like it.” Buffy was about to tilt her head up and kiss him right there on the dance floor, crowd be damned, when the music cut off and there was a loud clang, and the entire room turned towards the door, where Angel had his hand on a huge bell.

“If you would all please take your seats,” he growled in a distinctly unprofessional tone of voice, “Dinner will be served.” He was glaring at Buffy and Spike, fury in every line of his face.

Buffy turned to Spike again, realizing that she had forgotten all about the tormenting-Angel part of the evening. She had forgotten he was even there.

Which, now that she thought of it, was probably the best way to torment him after all.

Spike smiled conspiratorially, lifting her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles. 

“Time to eat, pet,” he said in the dirtiest, most insinuating tone of voice she had ever heard. 

She smiled back, feeling wicked. “Save some room for the main course.” His eyes widened approvingly as he followed her back to their table.

God, it felt good to be bad.

  
End Chapter 9


	11. Chapter 11

When Buffy’s back was finally turned and she was sauntering back to her seat, Spike had a moment of dizziness, like all the blood was rushing to his head, except not his head, to some other parts entirely, and not rushing at all because he was a vampire and his blood just sort of sat there, but it was the only simile he could come up with for the sudden loss of motor function as his brain processed what had just happened.

But then a hand clapped onto his shoulder, reminding him that he wasn’t alone with Buffy yet, that he still had to get through the meal and the concert, and fuck if he was going to spend the whole time drooling like the village idiot. At least not while Angel was looking. He glared at the hand on his shoulder, and then the owner of the hand. Xander.

“I’m sorry, man,” Xander was saying, his oafish face sympathetic. “She did that to me once, you know.”

Spike was fairly certain Buffy had never asked Xander to talk dirty to her in preparation for a night of athletic sex, so he shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Xander shook his head. “The dancing. The sexy dancing to make Angel jealous.” He nodded his head in mournful camaraderie. “Of course, that was back when I had a _thing_ for her, so maybe it doesn’t bother you as much, since you two are mortal enemies and thus completely not interested in each other.”

“Is that right?” Spike would doubt the twit’s intelligence, if he didn’t already know he was about as observant as a mole. Bugger was so thick if he walked in on an armed robbery he’d probably stand in line behind the fellow in the ski mask, blissfully waiting his turn.

Xander patted Spike’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t take it too hard, okay?” He headed off to smooch his demon-girl on the cheek.

Spike’s eyes drifted to Buffy’s behind; she was standing next to her chair, obviously waiting for him to seat her again. “Yeah, right. Not too hard.” _Like hell_. He would bet a dozen purebred Persians that Buffy would demand he take her hard, hard and pounding and _fuck_ if he didn’t stop imagining it he wasn’t going to survive long enough to actually do it.

He stalked over to Buffy and leered evilly down her cleavage as he scooted her in, partly for Angel’s benefit and partly just because he couldn’t help it; she rewarded him with a brilliant, sultry smile and held out her champagne glass for a refill. “Just a little nip,” she said breezily.

He splashed a little into her glass. “Not getting tipsy, are you?”

Buffy took a sip, screwing up her face. “Not on this, I’m not. Why does sophistication taste like cough syrup?”

“Good,” Spike murmured, sipping at his own flute. “Want you _there_ later tonight.”

Buffy’s eyes drooped. “Oh, I’ll be _there_ ,” she murmured back, languidly running a finger along the rim of her flute. She shifted a bit in her seat, as if she was uncomfortable, which Spike sincerely hoped she was – hoped she was squirming from unrelieved lust – but then he felt her bare toes stroking his calf, just at the top of his boot, and that was even better, so he nonchalantly reached down and guided her bare foot up to his inner thighs, letting his legs fall open, and she started to wriggle her toes up and down the inseam of his jeans, a faint, satisfied smile on her face.

Their appetizers arrived, and Spike wondered just what was the dirtiest, raunchiest way to eat shrimp.

***

Buffy already knew that watching Spike eat was a pornographic feast – he did things with his tongue that were almost certainly illegal in the Bible Belt – but watching Spike eat while she was doing her level best to turn him on with her toes, knowing half the approving noises he made had nothing to do with his shrimp cocktail… Well, it was surreal and intense and somehow entrancing, and she almost forgot to eat her own spring rolls, until it occurred to her that she would need her energy later on, and also spring rolls might as well have been designed specifically for seductive eating, so she dredged one in sweet and sour sauce and then slowly licked it all off, and by the time she was done Spike had slouched down further in his chair so her toes were right on his crotch, and she smiled around her mouthful and dug her toes in on a hard downward stroke while Spike watched her eat with wide, worshipful eyes.

The appetizers didn’t last long – being appetizers, she supposed that was to be expected – and while they were waiting for the main course Buffy slipped her other foot up into Spike’s lap, and he tucked one of his hands under the tablecloth and kneaded the arches while her toes kneaded him, and by the time their entrees arrived Buffy was hazily wondering if anyone would notice if she just ducked under the table for a bit, because she had to admit that turning Spike on, secretly but in public, was really turning her on, and she was not sure she could make it to dessert at this rate, much less the concert.

But entrees were eaten – seductively – and champagne was drunk – suggestively – and then the big ship’s bell clanged again, and Angel stepped up to the podium and started a speech.

Buffy was going to listen, she really was, but then Spike upped the ante on his foot-massage – he really was good at it – and she ended up closing her eyes to let the feeling of being pampered and spoiled just flow over her, until Spike’s hands stiffened and he dropped her feet onto his thighs unceremoniously, staring off at something just past Angel.

Buffy frowned and looked to see what he was looking at, but it was just a table of middle-aged ladies, up on a dais at the end of the room, and since she hadn’t been listening to what Angel had said, she had no idea why they were important.

“Spike,” she said in a low, insistent voice, wiggling her toes. “What’s going on?” She gave him a look that she hoped would convey her subtle request for more of the sexy foot-rubbing.

He looked at her, face rippling with indecision and lust, then gave her toes a quick squeeze and let her feet fall to the floor.

“Hold that thought,” he said roughly. “I’ll be right back.”

And then he was up and headed for the head table, his stupid evil satchel over his shoulder, leaving Buffy bereft and horny, her feet cooling on the floor.

***

Spike couldn’t believe his good fortune. He had thought he would have to wait until the Scoobies used their VIP backstage passes to get his album signed, but there they were, the Go-Gos themselves, enjoying the boat bistro as special honored guests, and when he realized that getting his album signed now might mean moving up the timeline for getting Buffy naked… Well, it was a win-win situation, that was bloody obvious, and he wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip by.

He was almost there, reaching into his satchel to retrieve his precious bubble-wrapped LP, when Angel stepped in front of him, forehead creased with rage; Spike rammed right into his barrel chest.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Angel’s voice was low and deadly.

Spike cocked his head challengingly. “Just a little socializing, mate, one Very Important Person to another. Nothing for the help to concern themselves with.” He started to step around Angel, to be stopped by a meaty hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, _sir_ , but I can’t let you disturb our guests of honor.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “I’m not disturbing anyone,” he growled. “Look, they’re very obviously not upset in the least.” He winked past Angel at Belinda Carlisle, who was indeed blushing and watching him with thinly-veiled interest.

“I’m afraid rules are rules,” Angel said solemnly.

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t see any _rules_ on the documentation for this fine occasion.”

“It’s just common sense, _sir_.”

Spike leaned in confidingly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had it in for me,” he said in a low voice, then grinned maliciously. “Like I’ve had my fingers in somebody’s cookie jar.”

Angel’s brow furrowed. “Shut up, Spike.”

“You know,” Spike murmured, just loud enough for Angel’s ears, “She makes the most delicious sounds when she comes. Little gasps and moans. The way she says my name… But then, you wouldn’t know, would you? Too busy letting your soul fly away to bring her off proper.” He leaned in closer. “But don’t you worry your immense forehead about it, _mate_. I’ll take good care of her.” He let his voice fall even deeper. “All. Night. Long.”

Angel growled, and as Spike started to walk past him again, shoved Spike hard enough that he fell against the dessert cart that was on its way to the head table, laden with slices of coconut cream pie.

Spike didn’t even think twice. He took one of the plates and smashed the pie right into Angel’s infuriated face.

Angel scrubbed at his face with his maître d’ towel and shoved Spike again, the impact sending the cart rolling off to crash into another table, splattering the diners with whipped cream. They jumped to their feet, looking around frantically.

Staggering, Spike took in the mess, and grinned slowly. What the hell, the evening _was_ a tribute to the 1980s after all. He cupped his hands around his mouth and let out the traditional battle cry of the decade.

“FOOD FIGHT!”

And the cream pies began to fly.

***

Buffy was sulking in the general direction of Spike’s empty chair when Willow leaned over from the seat next to her, whispering, “Is that Spike over there?”

Buffy didn’t even look. “Probably. He just took off to do something stupid. Or evil. Or evilly stupid.” Thank god the dessert carts were coming out. She was _so_ going to eat Spike’s dessert if he didn’t get his ass back here soon. The chocolate cake looked really delicious, and it wasn’t like Spike _needed_ to eat…

“No, look!” Willow poked Buffy in the shoulder. “Over there with Angel. Are they fighting?”

Buffy glared in the direction Willow was pointing. “Sure looks like it. Must be some sort of stupid vampire testosterone ritual.” As she was watching, Spike leaned in to say something into Angel’s ear, and the tall vampire’s eyes flew unerringly to her.

He looked mad, and she felt a moment’s satisfaction because she had wanted to twist the knife and apparently Spike was saying something especially knife-twisty, but then she felt her satisfied grin fade to horror as she watched the disaster unfold. The shove. The pie. The flying cart. The call to arms.

And then all hell broke loose.

Buffy had always thought the food fights so ubiquitous in dubious teen flicks of the past were unrealistic and highly exaggerated, but apparently they had left an awful lot of people with a burning desire to fling cream pies, because it didn’t even take five seconds before half the people in the room were on their feet scrambling for the dessert carts. She watched unbelieving as Xander tugged Anya by the hand towards the nearest cart, excitedly giving her instructions; Anya caught on quickly, lobbing pie after pie across the room. Willow and Tara stayed seated, but Buffy saw they were holding hands excitedly, and Willow started shouting orders in Xander’s direction. Even the middle-aged ladies that Spike had abandoned her for were getting into the action, gleefully anointing each other with whipped cream.

So much for sophistication.

Across the chaos, Buffy saw Spike dodging back towards her, that stupid satchel clutched protectively to his chest, a mad grin on his face, and as she watched him, fury bubbled up inside her.

She was going to _kill_ him. She was going to take him _down_.

Take him down and straddle him and kiss him and make him run his stupid hands all over her, and oh god, she could feel her fury boiling over, catalyzing into sheer lust, and she reached out her arms for him, and just as he came into range, Xander ducked a flying pie and crashed into her and she stumbled and fell right onto the dessert cart full of chocolate cake, face first, her chest squishing right into the layers of cake and icing and it was just _too much_.

Spike was _so_ going down.

***

Spike skidded to a stop and watched as Buffy slowly righted herself, turning to face him, icing and fragments of cake dripping off her like an avalanche, and her eyes were flashing and her chest was heaving, and _god_ , she was gorgeous, gorgeous and deadly, like a bonfire, and he wanted her all over again; he dropped his satchel beside their table, eyes riveted on her.

For a moment Buffy just stared down at herself, the icing and cake smeared all over her body, and then her head jerked up and she stomped right over and wound her hands into the front of Spike’s T-shirt.

“This is _your fault_ ,” she hissed through her teeth.

Spike glared right back. “What are you going to do, beat me?” He bared his teeth. “If you want a better batter better beat it harder!”

And then she was stomping off, dragging him behind her, except somehow they were both running now, scrambling out the door and up onto the deck and into a dark corner behind some barrels, lips fused together almost before they were even out in the cool night air, and Buffy sank down into a coil of rope and pulled him down with her, eyes burning.

“All your fault,” she whispered, sucking a glob of whipped cream off his neck.

“Is that right?” Spike muttered, hands busily smearing the chocolate into her skin.

“You have to fix it,” Buffy growled, winding her hands into his hair.

“And just how’m I supposed to do that?” Spike snarled, sitting back on his heels and looking down at her in the moonlight.

“ _Improvise_ ,” Buffy snapped, sinking down lower, pulling his head down to her heaving breast.

“Right, then,” Spike muttered, and licked right up her sternum to the hollow of her throat.

“Yes,” Buffy whispered as he nibbled at her collarbone, and “ _There!_ ” she whimpered when he lapped icing off her throat, and when he had cleaned off her chest and her shoulders and her arms she pushed him back for a moment, looking up at him with furious eyes, and grinned ferally. “You missed a spot,” she purred, and tucked her hand right into her neckline, scooping one breast out into the air.

Her nipple puckered in the breeze, and Spike just looked down at her for a moment. “No chocolate there,” he finally rasped out.

“Are you sure?” Buffy said innocently. “I’m quite certain I feel some frosting right _here_.” She traced a fingertip right around the hard tip, biting her lip.

Spike leaned in until his lips were millimeters away from her breast. “Here?” he asked casually, darting his tongue out for the barest of licks.

Buffy nodded seriously, gasping. “Right there,” she confirmed, taking in a sharp breath as Spike took her delicately into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and around

She curled around him in their little corner, holding his head to her with strong arms while he cleaned her thoroughly, scraping gently at her skin with his blunt teeth, and just to be fair he scooped out her other breast with his chocolate-coated hands, spreading icing so that he could lick it off there as well, and then he lay down beside her, head propped on one elbow, and offered his other hand for her to lick, because it was only gentlemanly to share, and by the time she was done with all the frosting and whipped cream he was shaking as well, and he took his damp hand and tucked it under the hem of her dress, sliding right up her thigh until he reached her bikini bottom, and he didn’t even bother with the strings, just slid two sticky fingers right under at the crease of her thigh and probed, eyes locked on hers, and _god_ she was wet and hot and perfect, and she rocked against his fingers, eyes wide and naked, and when she reached out her own hand and gave his cock a hard stroke through the denim of his jeans, he thought he might dust then for sure, but he slowed the rhythm of his fingers to match hers, until they were rocking in unison.

And then she popped his button and tugged down his zipper, torturously slow, and then curled her warm hand right around him, and he ground his eyes shut and muttered something profane, or maybe it was a prayer, but it didn’t really matter, nothing did except her hand and her heat and the moment.

They were both silent then, nothing moving but their hands and their hips and Buffy’s hair blowing in the ocean breeze, the muffled crashes and shouts and laughter of the food fight seeming miles away, until Buffy shook, and then came with a gasp, and he swore and pressed a kiss to her forehead as she started to laugh.

“I’m still a mess,” she whispered, hand continuing to stroke him.

“Keep that up and we’ll both be a mess,” Spike muttered, thrusting into her hand.

“You want me to stop?” she said, voice low.

“ _God_ , no,” he breathed, and they both watched her hand on him, stroking and stroking until he came against his belly.

“Now we’re both messy,” Buffy murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

“You’re beautiful,” Spike whispered back, nipping a bit of cake out of her hair. His hand was still tucked against her; she was throbbing and slick and he felt dizzy again, just from the feel of her against his fingertips. “Messy and delicious,” he smirked, and was about to prove how delicious she was, when the sounds of the food fight got suddenly louder and heavy footsteps came up onto the deck.

“Buffy?” It was Angel. Of course.

She stiffened under Spike’s fingers, and he reluctantly pulled his hand free, draping her skirt around her legs and solicitously tucking her breasts back under the sundress and bikini, then scrubbing his spendings away with the inside of his shirt, tucking himself back into his jeans, looking anywhere but at her face, because he didn’t want to see her regrets or second thoughts, he wanted to hold on to the memory of her glowing, wide-eyed face as she quivered in ecstasy for _him_ , but Buffy caught his cheeks between her palms and pulled him in for a quick, fervent kiss, and he took a chance and wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose in her sticky throat, and told himself he wasn’t surprised at all when she hugged him back.

They struggled to their feet – the coil of rope was not especially cooperative – and with a final bracing breath Buffy stepped out from behind the barrels, tugging Spike along behind her. “What did you want, Angel?” she said in a bored tone of voice.

Angel took one look at them and launched his fist straight at Spike’s head.

***

Buffy was feeling sticky and sated and loose, and she was honestly still pissed off at both Spike and Angel, so when they started fighting in earnest, she just sighed and leaned against the rail of the boat and watched them go at it, desultorily checking out the damage to her dress and wondering idly if they would do her the favor of stripping down, and possibly breaking out the oil. Ugh, her dress was still covered in dessert. What did a girl need to do to get a napkin around here?

In the meantime, Spike and Angel punched and whirled and kicked, slamming each other into the rails and generally being all testosterone-y and dumb.

After a particularly punishing blow, Angel grabbed Spike by the shirt. “What did you do to her?” he gritted out viciously.

“None of your business!” Buffy interjected, brushing crumbs off her skirt.

Spike just grinned up at Angel. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he taunted, suddenly collapsing and tossing Angel over his head to crash into the barrels.

_Oooh, judo!_ Buffy thought vaguely. Dammit, the chocolate was never going to come out of those sunflowers.

Angel staggered to his feet, face black with rage. “You aren’t worthy of touching her!” he growled. “You’re a foul, disgusting monster!”

Spike rolled up to face him, laughing. “That’s what _she_ said,” he retorted. “Right before she snogged me.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “That’s not technically true,” she pointed out.

Angel smiled at her, face relieved. “I knew you hadn’t kissed him.”

Narrowing her eyes, Buffy corrected him. “Oh, sorry. I meant the calling him a foul, disgusting monster part. The kissing part I totally did.” This knife-twisting was surprisingly fun; she needed to puncture Angel’s ego more often.

Angel growled again, letting loose with another punch that missed when Spike launched himself at his midsection, sending them both crashing to roll on the ground.

“Guys?” Buffy called out, frowning at a glob of frosting in her hair. “Can we not do this right now?” She picked the lump of chocolate out and tossed it over the side. Huh. Was the water supposed to look like that? All boiling and bubbling?

Angel had taken the upper hand and was snarling into Spike’s face. “Buffy, what weird, sick things did this… this _beast_ force you to do?”

Spike glared up at him. “The _beast_ didn’t force her,” he spit out.

Angel cast Buffy a pleading look, and she rolled her eyes again. “The beast didn’t force me,” she confirmed. God, if things kept on like this, her eyes were going to just roll right out of their sockets. “I wanted to do it,” she continued, narrowing her eyes against potentially disastrous rolling action. “And it was _fun_.”

Angel gaped at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m talking to the real Buffy Summers,” he muttered.

Another eye-roll-worthy comment. “Does this mean you’re going to throw me out of _your city_ again?”

“No, I…” He shook Spike then, roughly. “You cast a spell, didn’t you?”

“Oh, for the love of…” Spike shrugged off Angel’s hands, tugging his shirt back into place. “No spells, you dolt. Slayer’s single, she just wants some strings-free summer loving. From someone who doesn’t expect her to act like a bleeding Madonna.” He looked thoughtful. “Or like Madonna, for that matter.” He shrugged apologetically in Buffy’s direction. “Unless you want to, pet, but you don’t strike me as the Boy Toy type.”

“I promise not to sing _Like a Virgin_ ,” Buffy said wryly.

“Open for some _Hanky Panky,_ though,” Spike offered with a flash of teeth.

Angel tackled Spike again, and they once more rolled on the deck. Buffy turned her attention back to the bubbling water. That really did not look normal. “Guys?” Angel and Spike ignored her, Spike grabbing a rope with a huge hook on the end and whirling it about his head. “ _STUPID VAMPIRES!_ ” Buffy shouted, and they both turned to stare at her in shock.

While they were both distracted, the hook flew from Spike’s grasp and clocked Angel in the side of the head. Angel shouted in pain as a splatter of blood flew away from his cheek, a small _something_ flying off and over the railing into the roiling depths.

Angel clapped a hand to the side of his head, probing with his fingers. “Spike, you just cut off my earlobe!”

Spike dropped the rope. “No, I didn’t,” he said innocently.

“You did! Look, it’s gone.”

Spike peered at the side of Angel’s head, then shrugged. “Well, I didn’t do it.”

Angel regarded the blood on his hand ruefully. “Now how am I going to wear my diamond earring?”

“Huh. When did you get pierced?” Spike put on a plainly-false face of polite inquiry.

Angel’s jaw stiffened, like he was trying hard not to pout. “I didn’t yet. I was saving it. For a reward.” He looked sidelong at Buffy, and she glared back, disbelieving. _Shamu again?_

Spike inspected the side of Angel’s head seriously, clapping him bracingly on the shoulder. “Well, no problem, mate. We just need to find it, stitch it on, eventually it’ll heal. Where’d it go?” He ducked his head to scan the deck.

“Over the side,” Buffy volunteered.

Angel and Spike turned together to look into the water, which was still bubbling away.

“That does not look normal,” Angel observed.

“Hence the me yelling at the two stupid vampires.” When they turned to look at her, faces blank, Buffy had to fight not to roll her eyes again. “Yes, that would be the two of you,” she clarified testily.

Spike shrugged in grudging acceptance, then looked back down at the water. “Huh.” He slung a comradely arm around Angel’s shoulder. “Well, tell you what, as a vampire we both know you don’t need to breathe, so you can just pop on down there and fetch it for yourself. I’ll line up a surgeon, all right? Meet you on the shore.” He nodded encouragingly.

Angel shoved Spike’s arm away. “You cut it off. You go get it!”

Spike shrugged again. “Don’t care about your earring or your earlobe. Not like you’ll ever be able to afford a diamond at any rate, not on maître d’ wages and pro bono work.”

Angel glared down at the water silently for a long moment. “Could get a cubic zirconia,” he finally grumbled.

Spike thought for a moment, then nodded judiciously. “You could, indeed. Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t care.”

Buffy heaved a huge, exasperated sigh as they both turned to look down at the unnatural water again. Jesus, it was like being back in sixth grade. She had _hated_ middle school.

“Boat’s moving, you know,” Spike pointed out. “Better go now if you want to find it.”

“Shut up, Spike.” Angel said automatically, eyes narrowing. “Huh. What’s that?”

Buffy was just turning to look when the water exploded, showering all three of them with salt spray as something huge and brownish and bristling with legs or antennae or some other grody appendages landed with a thud in the middle of the deck. It emitted a grating noise that was entirely unlike anything Buffy had ever heard before, which was really quite an accomplishment, considering her life to date.

“Bloody hell!” Spike shouted – predictably, Buffy thought as she sank into a fighting stance, tossing her dripping hair behind her.

He really needed a profanity thesaurus if they were going to keep hanging out.

 

End Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I am saving most of the author's notes for the very end, I must give credit where credit is due: A chunk of dialogue in this chapter is shamelessly lifted and adapted from the Rudolf Nureyev episode of The Muppet Show. It'sat the beginning of this clip:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OilDMDWRLks


	12. Chapter 11: Rock Lobster

The thing was spiny and bug-like, spidery legs all over the place, huge antennae whipping about its head as it emitted a rasping screech that made Buffy reflexively fall back against the rail. Its segmented body ended in a flare of fins, like a mermaid if the maid part had been replaced by a cockroach – Buffy briefly considered “roachmaid” as a possibility but the more she looked at the huge creature, the more she thought she should recognize it, and then she realized it should really be “mer-roach,” and then she decided maybe she should just fight it and not worry so much about semantics.

The problem was, the thing looked… awfully  _ hard _ . And she was barefoot and weaponless, having left both her strappy sandals and her bag of weapons downstairs in her frenzy to get Spike’s mouth and hands on her. Not that the sandals would have done her much good, but, well, a sword would have been handy right about now.

Buffy lunged in and tried a punch, but it glanced off the creature’s armor, and hurt like hell to boot.  _ Dammit! _ A flailing antenna slashed towards her head, barely missing her as she ducked. She could hear thuds from the other side of the creature, presumably Spike and Angel laying into the bug, and she peeked under the thing’s pale belly to see that yes, Spike was still wearing his boots. “Spike! Axe!”

“Righty-ho!” he shouted from the other side, and a few seconds later one of her throwing axes came skittering across the deck, ricocheting through the bug’s legs. She ducked another lash of antennae to snatch it up. There was a meaty  _ thunk _ from Spike’s direction – he had obviously decided to make use of the second axe himself, and like her had decided against the throwing part. They worked just as well as hand axes anyhow.

All through this the roachmaid/mer-roach had been crouched as if waiting for something, nothing moving but its tentacular antennae, and as Buffy somersaulted to avoid another blow, she realized it was… listening, maybe? Sensing with one of its senses, for sure, and just as Buffy got the axe balanced right in her hand, it skittered towards her, turning its back on the vampires.

Buffy didn’t have much experience reading the body language of big bug-things, but she was pretty sure its sudden perkiness meant it thought she was  _ food _ . Vampires must not be on its preferred menu, because it was suddenly only interested in her.

She wondered how long it would take it to figure out there was a whole smorgasbord of people downstairs.

Spike came into her peripheral vision, diving around the thing to her left and blocking its way to the stairs, and a second later, Angel appeared on her right, darting along the rail, and they both shouted her name at the same time.

“What the bleeding hell is this bugger?” Spike snarled, swinging the axe at one of the monster’s legs.

“I think it’s a shrimp!” Angel shouted, grabbing another leg and yanking.

Spike took a break from hacking to cast Angel a disgusted look. “Extra-jumbo, is it?”

“Well, a prawn maybe?” With another yank, Angel managed to rip the leg he was gripping off, the sudden release sending him sprawling towards the rail. 

“That’s just the British word for shrimp, you berk!” Spike retorted.

The rasping screech – Buffy couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it was  _ loud _ – intensified in volume and the maybe-a-prawn convulsed, its thick mermaid tail thrashing from side to side, and as Buffy watched, it thwacked into Angel – already off-balance against the rail – and with a last pleading look at Buffy, he tumbled over the rail and into the roiling water, and was gone.

“Angel!” Buffy cried, because even being mad at him she didn’t especially want him lost at sea, but then the massive crustacean lunged at her again, scrabbling at her with its foremost legs – how many legs did the thing  _ have _ ? – and Buffy had to leap back to avoid them.

Spike cast her a grumpy glare, slashing wildly. “You know he won’t drown, right?”

“I know, geez!” Buffy hacked at the nearest antenna with her axe; it glanced off. “Dammit! I need something bigger!” She glared back at Spike, who was between the demon prawn and the stairs. “Can you get me my bag?”

Spike nodded shortly, sending his axe sliding across the deck to her before bounding down the stairs.

Buffy snatched up the second axe and faced down the creature, trying to spot other weaknesses besides legs, because really, she could spend all night hacking those things off. The antennae were tough and spiny, but up at the top of the head… were those eye stalks, waving around sinuously? Buffy crouched down, and when the thing scuttled forward again, she somersaulted into the air, landing astride its… saddle-thing-part. Carrie-face? Whatever the hell Willow had called it. 

The demon prawn bucked and writhed under her as she hacked futilely at the waving stalks – which she was pretty sure now were indeed eyes because they were pointed right at her now, malicious black orbs like the eyes of a shark.

“Spike!” she shouted, grabbing the base of one of the antennae for purchase.

Where the hell was he?

***

Spike crashed through the door of the bistro into a scene of complete chaos. The floor and walls were coated with whipped cream, and while the supply of cream pies on plates seemed to have been exhausted, people were still wrestling and laughing and snatching up spare handfuls of cream to toss, and somewhere along the line someone had turned on the music and a crowd of dessert-smeared revelers – the Scoobies among them – were dancing and slipping and sliding under the strobing lights.

Spike managed to make it to their table unaccosted, and he quickly found Buffy’s bag of weapons.

Along with his treasured first-press LP, still neatly wrapped and safe.

He froze looking at it, then turned his gaze to the head table. There they were, all of the Go-Go’s, laughing and teasing each other, globs of whipped cream in their perfect hair. As he watched, Belinda Carlisle turned and caught his eye with a come hither look, just as winsome as she ever had been.

Spike picked up the satchel with his LP. He could go get it signed now. Angel was gone and his quarry was nearby and vulnerable, and the bloody lead singer was eyeing him like she wanted to have him for dessert, which only a few days earlier would have seemed a dream come true. If he played his cards right, he could be fucking her behind the buffet in a matter of minutes. He’d always had a soft spot for Belinda, that twinkle in her eye and her cute little tush. Getting that LP signed was the only reason he had agreed to be the sodding Scoobies’ chauffeur. The only reason he was here in Los Angeles at all.

But Buffy was upstairs fighting for her life.

He let out a vicious stream of curse words, tucked the satchel back under the table beside Buffy’s discarded sandals, and slung her duffel of weapons over his shoulder, determinedly not looking back at the head table, reminding himself of Buffy’s sweet lips and sweeter thighs, and his suspicion that her pink quim would be the sweetest of all, trying not to think about the fact that it wasn’t the promise of sex or the certainty of violence that was propelling him out the door. It was just… Buffy.

God, he was buggered.

He stormed up the stairs with the bag, pausing at the top to take in the sight before him. Somehow Buffy had gotten astride the prawn, her flowered sundress (somewhat the worse for wear) hiked up almost to her waist as the beast wriggled obscenely beneath her, her golden muscular thighs clamped firmly around its carapace, her arms gleaming like silver in the moonlight as her axes rose and fell, and Spike was transfixed by the sex and violence and perfection of it all, overwhelmed with wonder that this goddess of war would even deign to touch him, and he nearly fell to his knees in worship, but then she turned her eyes upon him like lightning and shouted “Axe!”

Spike ripped open her satchel, pulling out the huge battle axe that was presumably what she wanted – certainly it was what he would have wanted in her situation – and hefted it through the air to her; she dropped her baby axes to catch it and as they clattered to the deck, she raised her arms high and brought the mama axe down on the crustacean’s head. It screeched as some spines and other bits rained onto the deck, and Spike leapt into the fray himself, snatching a sword out of the satchel and slashing at whatever parts of the creature he could reach, because fuck if he was going to let Buffy have all the fun, not when he’d passed up Belinda fucking Carlisle for this.

He had severed a few more legs and gotten some good chunks out of the thing’s body when Buffy slid back a few feet along its back, hefted the axe high once again, and brought it around in a mighty slash that passed just behind the carapace, neatly separating the thing’s head from its body. It convulsed for a moment more before collapsing to the deck, legs twitching spasmodically, and Spike looked at Buffy as she stood on the demon prawn’s corpse, axe dangling from one hand as she wiped her brow with the other, and she was the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire unlife, more than a century, and he dropped his sword and strode across the deck and stood on the deck before her like a supplicant, looking up at her where she stood atop the body of her foe, and she grinned and dropped the axe and took him by the shirt and tugged him up for a victory kiss, and as he wrapped his arms around her he thought,  _ god, I love this woman! _ and he knew right then he was lost.

She was his Athena, and he was just hers.

He couldn’t say that, though, couldn’t let her see just yet, and so instead he brushed his lips against her ear and whispered, “You’re bloody brilliant.”

“I know,” she whispered back, and nearly knocked him down with another kiss.

This was turning out to be the best bloody weekend ever.

***

Buffy wasn’t sure why she had kissed Spike – something about adrenaline and relief and that  _ look _ in his eyes when he stood before her – but it had been a pretty darn good idea, whatever part of her brain had generated it; his lips were demanding and his hands were firm on her ass and it was like when they had been dancing, except a thousand million times better, out here under the moonlight with the ocean breeze caressing her face and sending her hair whipping out behind her.

Spike’s lips traveled down her throat then, and he muttered  _ God, I want you! _ into her heaving chest, and she realized he wasn’t the only one, that she was revved up in every possible way, but at the same time, she was standing on the still-twitching body of a giant sea cockroach, which was not her idea of an ideal venue.

“We’re not having sex on top of a giant dead bug,” Buffy said breathlessly, clutching his head to her.

“Course not,” Spike agreed amiably, sliding one hand around over her hip. “That would be uncivilized.” And then his hand delved between her legs, rubbing her hard through the fabric and oh  _ god _ it felt good, she was suddenly aware that she was already wet and swollen and sensitive, and he grinned against her breast, his other hand hiking her thigh up so she was wide open to him, and she yanked up her dress, tugging it from under his fingers so he could get his hand where she needed it, she needed it more than air, and when he finally slid his fingers down inside her bikini bottom and slid them all along her, she started to shake, she was almost there already, she was teetering on the edge, and he tenderly stroked her into free fall, she was falling and falling and he caught her, holding her tightly as she convulsed, and she muttered  _ don’t stop _ and he didn’t, he stroked her over and over until she came again, so hard she felt tears coming to her eyes, and then she collapsed into his arms, gasping and quivering and feeling like the apocalypse had come and gone.

Which, well, she actually had some experience with.

When she could breathe again she stepped back and glared into Spike’s eyes – up, this time, since somewhere along the line she had stepped or fallen or possibly floated down to the deck – and tugged her dress back down. “That was probably also uncivilized, Spike.” Though she was beginning to think civilization was overrated.

“Was it uncivilized?” Spike’s voice was innocent for about a second before dropping low and suggestive again. “Well, seeing as the line’s already been crossed…”

“Oh my  _ god _ !” Buffy turned to see Cordelia at the top of the stairs, somehow still pristine right down to her crisp server’s apron. Cordy had that look on her face that she usually reserved for heinous crimes of fashion. She gingerly stepped forward, leaning over to peer at the dismembered corpse. “Is that a lobster?”

“Lobsters have big claws,” Buffy replied absently, glancing sidelong at Spike. “Angel said he thought it was a prawn.”

Spike huffed impatiently. “Oh, and Angel’s always right, is he?”

Cordelia looked around sharply. “Where is Angel, anyhow? He’s supposed to be leading a toast, if we can get the crowd back under control.”

“Oh, god.” Buffy ran to the side, scanning the dark waters. On the bright side, they were no longer roiling and bubbling, just rolling like ordinary waves, mysterious and dark under the moonlight.

But there was no sign of Angel.

Cordelia ran up and clutched the rail next to Buffy. “He fell in? And you didn’t save him?” She glared at Buffy.

“I was fighting a ginormous sea-bug,” Buffy replied shortly. “Or would you rather I had left it to snack on the VIPs?”

Cordelia opened her mouth, probably to cast aspersions on the VI-ness of the VIPs, but was interrupted by Spike stepping between them, draping an arm over their shoulders. He was looking at the dark water with barely-disguised glee. “No worries. Not like the wanker can drown, is it? I should know.” He patted Cordelia’s arm consolingly. “Not to fret. He’ll just walk to shore along the bottom, like dead people do. Expect he’ll show up at shore before sunrise.” Cordelia did not look comforted, but Spike obviously felt further consolation was unnecessary; he turned to Buffy with a fierce grin. “Shall we dispose of the remains, then?”

Buffy met Cordelia’s outraged eyes briefly, shrugging. “Probably should. People are going to finish dessert eventually.” She took hold of a chitinous leg and started to pull.

After all Angel had lived for a couple of centuries so far. He could take care of himself.

***

Angel swam slowly back into consciousness, which was something he had more than two centuries of experience with, so he had a good idea what it usually felt like, and as a result he was instantly aware – in a vague, slowly-regaining-consciousness way – that this time it felt different. Thicker somehow. Kind of like… actually swimming.

Which made sense when he opened his eyes and realized he was underwater. 

Good thing he didn’t need to breathe.

It was dark, really dark, but not completely dark, as he might have expected, seeing as it was night at the bottom of the ocean; there was a faint phosphorescent glow coming from somewhere nearby, and so he could actually see a lot of his surroundings. His bleary eyes took in the vista of gently wafting seaweed, smooth sand littered with seashells and the occasional scuttling crab while he gradually became aware that his waist was being compressed. Like a hug, except not a hug, because hugs were generally relatively loose and didn’t last very long – bare seconds, in his experience – while this was more of an inexorable pressure, tight enough that he was suddenly grateful that his internal organs didn’t need to actually function because they were probably a bit on the crushed side by now. 

He looked down at his feet, but his feet weren’t there.

Or, well, they were there – he could wiggle his toes; he just couldn’t see his feet because from the waist down his body was clamped tightly inside a huge clamshell.

And he still didn’t have an earlobe. His shredded ear was stinging faintly from the salt water.

_ Great, _ he thought grouchily, glaring at the seaweed.  _ Just peachy. _

 

End Chapter 11


	13. Chapter 12: Dancing Now

Xander’s weekend was going swell. Almost perfect, in fact.

First of all, free steak. And not just any steak – a buttery, tender filet mignon, cooked to perfection, as unlike the leathery briquettes Xander’s father grilled on Fridays as meat could be, even served up with a side of potatoes, instead of a nasty garnish of bitter invective and repulsive political rhetoric. Xander had always liked food, a comforting shield against the harshness of the world, but it had been a revelation when he had learned that food and company could both be good at the same time, instead of one being a desperate yet vaguely unsatisfying refuge from the other. A delicious meal with friends (and one enemy, but whatever) was pretty much bliss.

And then, well, there was the bed. Anya had been inspired by the fluffiness and size, not to mention the lack of mildew-smell, but even after all The Sex, Xander had been in heaven just sinking into the quality non-hide-a-bed-mattress covered with clean sheets and a clean duvet, being able to drift off to sleep without the sound of arguments bleeding in from the floor above. (There had been a period when some of the guests across the hall had been having some very loud fun, but Buffy must have called the hotel desk about her neighbor, because there had been some knocking and then things had finally quieted down. Which was a good thing, because Anya had a competitive streak, and Xander’s body had already been pushed to its limits for the night.)

Then there had been more food – really high-quality donuts in the morning – and the pool and the beach, and then _more_ food, and just when he had thought things couldn’t get any better, there had been an honest-to-god food fight, the stuff of every high school student’s dreams. And, well, he wasn’t a high school student anymore, or even a student, but some dreams never died. Not to mention, Anya was a terrific food-fight-ally; he was sometimes a little uncomfortable with her vengeance-demon past, but when she was wielding her talent for revenge in the service of cream-pie mayhem… well, Xander was glad all over again about all the food, because he was going to need his energy tonight. That had been _hot_.

And to top it all off, Angel had apparently been lost at sea. Possibly never to return. Xander could not for the life of him see a downside to this. He was, in point of fact, seriously starting to worry that it was all just a wonderful dream, and any second now pedophile clowns were going to start coming out of the woodwork.

Still, if it was a dream, it was incredibly detailed, and he hoped he managed not to wake up – or the clowns managed to hold off – until the concert was over. The Scoobies, along with the rest of the dessert-crusted VIPs from the boat, had been hastily given access to the beach so they could rinse off the worst of the cream, then packed into shuttle vans and escorted to the concert venue, where they had been greeted with brimful bags of swag; Xander had taken the barest peek, but at the very least they all had matching towels with the band names embroidered in the corners, and what looked like T-shirts too. And now they were being seated in primo seats, right up on the stage, front row, plush seats with armrests and cup holders and enough space in front to stand up and shout and dance if they wanted, and probably get spattered with sweat from the performers. (Which, normally on the disgusting side, but in this particular situation kind of awesome. B-52s sweat. _Belinda Carlisle_ sweat.) It was early yet; they hadn’t even let in the hoi polloi to the lesser seating off to the sides and in the back, and Xander grinned to himself again at the realization that tonight, at least, he was neither hoi nor polloi. He was, in fact, Very Important.

It was awesome. Xander felt like… Well, he felt like the Scoobies were a big-time rock band, like they could be on stage right alongside the B-52s, and he was their Fred Schneider, that’s how he felt. A really important person, an integral part of the team, providing a much-needed wacky and offbeat male voice, and the occasional bit of cowbell. The B-52s wouldn’t sound the same without Fred, and the Scoobies wouldn’t be the same without Xander. He was a Very Important Scooby. Providing Very Important Cowbell.

Huh. Now that he thought about it, he could actually get a real cowbell to bring to Scooby meetings, instead of the metaphorical cowbell he usually relied on. That would help keep things lively, and be useful for breaking the tension when things got a little too apocalyptical. He could do his best Christopher Walken impression, which was pretty darn good, if he did say so himself. (He did, in fact, say so himself, because nobody else had ever said it.)

He tried it out as he settled into his seat. “I got a _fever!_ And the only _prescription!_ Is more _cowbell!_ ”

Anya ignored the joke – which, to be fair, she had heard a few dozen times before – instead staring at the stage with wide eyes. “Are all those lights going to be flashing?”

“Probably,” Xander sighed happily, sitting back in his comfy VIP seat and draping his arm around his VIP woman. “Haven’t you ever been to a concert before?” He himself had never been to a concert like this either, just small fry bands at the Bronze, but thanks to MTV he had some idea what to expect. He was prepared for the eventual riot, and had his cool “no thanks, man” prepared in case anyone tried to offer him drugs, and was ready to catch any of the B-52s or Go-Go’s who might find it necessary to leap out into the crowd.

Anya frowned. “What if someone has an epileptic seizure?”

“Then we crowd-surf them out to the paramedics,” Xander breezed.

“Oooh, here’s hoping for a seizure, then. That sounds fun!” Anya jiggled a little in her seat, excited again. “What’s crowd-surfing?”

Xander was about to launch into a lengthy treatise on the quaint and wacky traditions of twentieth-century concertgoers when Willow and Tara returned from the restroom and he had to sit back so they could scoot into their seats. “Where’s the Buffinator?”

Willow glanced up from rummaging in her bag of goodies. “She and Spike are doing a quick sweep before things get started. Just to make sure it’s safe.” She frowned, digging deep. “I think she said something about churros too.”

Churros were all of the good – Buffy would bring him one back, he was sure of it – but the Spike bit was kind of sticking in his craw, even if he did feel kind of sorry for the guy. “How come we’re all trusting Spike all of a sudden? Am I the only one who remembers the betraying-us thing?”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Like you’ve never lied or cheated or liquefied someone’s entrails.” She frowned. “Well, okay, that last bit’s probably just me, but really, you have to learn to move past these petty little things. Especially now that Buffy and Spike are… well, _you know._ ”

Xander felt suddenly sick, like he’d eaten all the churros in the arena in quick succession and washed them down with a gallon of antifreeze. “What? What do I know?”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t noticed the tension? And all the looks?”

Xander’s mouth was gaping open, but he couldn’t convince his face muscles to work to close it. Finally, he managed to get his tongue in working order. “The mortal-enemies tension, you mean? And the mean looks? With the I-hate-yous and the glares and the making Angel jealous?”

Anya looked at him pityingly for a long moment. “Yes,” she said finally. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

Sighing in relief, Xander collapsed deeper into his comfy VIP seat. “Oh, thank god.” He was not going to dwell on the fact that Anya had definitely been using her sarcastic voice. She was never subtle about sarcasm, his VIP woman.

With a worried look on her face, Anya leaned in to brush the hair from his face. “I’m sorry. You’re not too traumatized for sex, are you? Because it would be a shame to waste that bed.”

“Yeah. No. Yeah.” Was that the right number of answers?

Anya puzzled over it for a moment before shrugging and snuggling in under Xander’s arm. “All right, then. I know how sensitive you are.”

“I really, really am.” Xander’s stomach was still doing somersaults, egged on by the secret, sneaking suspicion that maybe there _was_ something going on too awful for his brain to comprehend. That maybe the sexy dancing had been…. Nope. No, that was just a world of nope and he wasn’t even going to consider it. Nosiree Bob.

He let his brain wander back to the thought of churros. Churros were good. He thought determinedly of the churros that Buffy would be bringing back to him, any minute now. Sweet, crunchy, deep-fried cinnamon goodness.

Churros would make everything better.

***

Goshdarnit, Xander’s churro was crushed.

For a few seconds, Buffy tried to fit the pieces back together, thinking maybe Xander wouldn’t notice that the crisp pastry was in more than a dozen pieces, but that delusion didn’t last long. She was just going to have to buy him a new one.

She glared sidelong at Spike. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” He grinned evilly. “I’m am quite certain I was not the one doing the dragging, love.”

Buffy had to admit that this was true, and if she were fair she would even admit that she had started the whole thing when she had caught Spike watching her lick cinnamon-sugar off her fingertips after eating her own churro and decided to make a sexy show of it, and then had decided that she would rather have Spike do the licking anyhow and taken him someplace semi-private so he could do a good thorough job of it, which had led predictably to him kissing her thoroughly – and, as it turned out, in a manner very unsafe for churros – up against a convenient wall. But she wasn’t feeling fair, not when it meant having to stand in line again. “Go get another one.”

Spike glared death at her. “And why is it I’m the one who gets to stand in line?”

Buffy tilted her head back challengingly, took one of the shards of Xander’s churro, and ate it delicately. With a great deal of tongue. “Because,” she said huskily.

Spike growled under his breath. “Give us a snog, then.”

“What’s a snog?” Buffy started to ask, but then Spike twisted his hand in the front of her dress and tugged her close for a sinful kiss, and that was explainy enough for her. She managed to regain some self-control after a few moments, though, gently pushing Spike away. “Churros, Spike. Churros, and concert.”

Spike’s eyes blazed down at her, sulky and sultry and somehow wary. “And after?”

Buffy could hardly breathe. “After.” She nodded, feeling suddenly shy. “After the concert.” She frowned. “Unless there’s bug-things, in which case they should probably take priority.”

He grinned at her then, fierce and joyful, teeth a flash of white. “Yeah, well, that’s all right.” He kissed her again, hard and fast. “You win. I’ll get sodding churros for the sodding Scoobies.”

“Please do,” Buffy sniffed, digging a ten out of her purse. “Get a few, okay? Xander really likes them.”

“There’s a surprise,” Spike muttered with a roll of his eyes, and was gone.

Buffy took a deep breath, then another. Oh god, this was actually happening. She was actually making deliberate plans to get naked with Spike, naked and sweaty and with the tongues and the groininess and the licking and the… Another deep breath. It was going to be okay. She was an American college student, and everyone knew that American college students were all with the experimenting, and seeing as she had already gotten beer out of her system, and didn’t have any interest in either marijuana or politics, sexual experimentation was totally the way to go. Of course, most coeds went bi-curious instead of evil-soulless-vampire-curious, but the principle was the same, right? It wasn’t like she was declaring once and for all that she was evil-sexual, she was just… broadening her horizons. Opening her mind to new experiences. Full speed ahead.

Having her mind completely blown.

That was all right, wasn’t it?

Heck, even stuffy old Giles had done his share of experimenting, and sex with a slightly-traitorous vampire was still miles better than getting possessed by hellgods for weird orgies, right? Buffy was practically a saint compared to young Giles, and… _Oh god_ it was like thinking of Giles had summoned him, there was a man just across the rapidly-filling lobby who had the hair and the walk, and if he hadn’t been wearing a faded concert T-shirt and a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts, she’d think it actually _was_ Giles. Which was ridiculous. Giles wouldn’t be caught dead in public in a swimsuit, not even if it were made of tweed, and as she watched the Giles look-alike took off his glasses and started to clean them, and her feet started moving until she was standing in front of him as he set his clean glasses back on the bridge of his nose, and he saw her.

It was one-hundred-percent Giles. She stared and stared, and he stared back, and she opened her mouth to say something, anything, about the board shorts or the T-shirt or even the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear, but she just gaped and gasped like a fish, and he looked at her inscrutably, eyeing her demolished sundress with vague horror, until he finally broke the détente with a sigh.

“We must never speak of this,” he said quietly.

“Right,” Buffy said faintly, nodding.

He brushed past her and was gone.

Spike came up behind her then, churros wrappers crinkling in his hands. God, how much time had she lost, staring in befuddlement at the unspeakable horror before her?

“Was that Giles?” he asked dubiously.

“No,” Buffy said firmly. “No, it was not.” And then she took him by the sleeve and dragged him off to the corner she was starting to think of as ‘theirs’ and kissed him until she could almost forget.

She remembered to be careful of the churros this time.

***

“Look at those two,” Fast Freight Kate said, voice wistful. “Were we ever that young?”

Dakota Keith had seen enough; he averted his eyes quickly. “You were once.” He nudged her gently with an elbow, careful not to spill the sodas he was carrying. “Not like we’re _old_ now, is it?”

His Katie sighed. “I dunno, Dakota. Sometimes I feel too old to be riding the rails alone.”

He had a solution to that, but looking at her dear profile, he didn’t think she was ready to hear it, so he shrugged. “Still look young to me, Katie.”

She laughed, disbelieving.

No, she wasn’t ready yet.

He cast a jealous sidelong glance at the couple in the corner before following Fast Freight Kate into the arena.

He’d tell her someday.   

***

Spike tossed Droopy his bleeding Churros, feeling unusually magnanimous towards the poor sod as he settled into the seat beside Buffy. He was on the aisle, which suited him fine – easy exit if Buffy decided she wanted to fuck sooner rather than later – and he was starting to feel confident that even if _later_ got later still, it was looking less and less likely that it would slide back to _never_ , which was enough to let him lounge with lazy equanimity, legs stretched out into the aisle, watching the munchies file into their seats.

He stayed sprawled out when the weak-sauce opening band started to warm up the crowd, watching Buffy out of the corner of his eye as she laughed and chatted with Xander on her other side. The boy kept looking at him funny, but Spike couldn’t bring himself to care what the twit’s damage was, not when he’d given of his own time – time he could have spent much more pleasurably, kissing the slayer, or smoking, or really anything – to fetch him his sodding snacks. Spike would have just given him the crushed bits, perhaps with a smirking comment so that he’d know exactly how the crushing had happened, but then the slayer had asked him with those big green eyes, and that was that. Hadn’t taken her long to suss out that he was her sodding puppet, that she had him so wound up with promises of sex and violence and even fucking _conversation_ that the barest twitch of her fingers would set him to dancing.

Not that he planned on dancing. Didn’t seem to be a decent mosh pit set up, and he wouldn’t be able to slam dance in it even if it had been, not without the chip firing off constantly, which rather took the fun out of it. And, well, their seats were rather posh. Might as well save his energy for _later_.

When the B-52s took the stage, though, Buffy tugged him to his feet. “Act like you’re having fun,” she hissed, and he shrugged and eased between her and her seat, setting his hands on her hips. He was a ruddy failure at acting, had shown it time and again, but he knew an awful lot about having fun, and right now, having the slayer shake her delectable ass bare inches away from him promised to be pretty fucking fun indeed.

Especially when she leaned right back into him, turning her head just enough that he could see her teeth caught in her lip.

“Don’t have to stay for the concert,” he murmured into her ear.

She shook her head, her hair brushing against his lips. “No,” she said firmly. “I want the concert.”

He nuzzled her hair aside, whispering what _he_ wanted. Which was what she wanted too, from that little growl she made in the back of her throat. But the music was starting, and she caught the beat, starting to dance, looking right up at the stage, and he shrugged again, and fell into rhythm with her. After all, they had all night.

Meanwhile, the band was playing a driving melody on the guitar, and the girls, looking hot with their trademark beehive hairdos, started making some atrocious ululation as Fred started to sing.

 

_We were at a party_

_His earlobe fell in the deep_

_Someone reached in and grabbed it_

_It was a rock lobster_

 

Huh. Something about that seemed familiar, and just as he realized what it was, Buffy stiffened and turned to him.

“Oh my god,” she said, eyes wide and brilliant in the flashing lights. “His earlobe. His earlobe fell in the deep.”

Spike shrugged. “Must be a coincidence, love.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The singing went on, and Spike unwillingly listened to the lyrics.

 

_We were at the beach_

_Everybody had matching towels_

_Somebody went under a dock_

_And there they saw a rock_

_It wasn't a rock_

_It was a rock lobster_

 

Buffy turned to him again, winding her hands into his shirt, and this time she looked panicked. “There was blood under a dock. Spike, I think I know what’s going on!” When Spike just raised his eyebrows, she rolled her eyes and continued. “There’s a spell, Spike! A spell that’s making the songs come true!”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “You’re serious,” he muttered, though loudly enough to be heard over the weird sounds the band was making.

Buffy shook him sharply. “The thing. The bug thing. Could it be a rock lobster?”

Xander wedged himself partway between them then, glaring at Spike. “What’s going on?”

Buffy huffed out an exasperated sigh. “The songs. The songs are coming true.”

“No,” Xander scoffed, then looked confused. “Wait, what?”

“What’s a rock lobster?” Buffy asked impatiently, looking with sudden annoyance at the stage. “ _God_ , this song is distracting!”

“Aren’t rock lobsters tasty?” Xander replied doubtfully.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Okay, we can’t talk here. All Scoobies, report to the concession stands.” She grabbed Spike by the hand and dragged him off in her wake as she stomped up the aisle. He glanced back and saw Xander trailing behind them, the girls following behind him in turn.

When they were finally out in the relatively-quiet coolness of the concession-lined boardwalk, Buffy started to pace. “Does anyone know what a rock lobster is? Isn’t it just like a regular lobster?”

“Oh, no,” Anya said cheerfully. “They’re totally different.”

“How?” Buffy kept pacing, face set in a thoughtful scowl. Spike leaned up against the corner of the beer concession, watching, because _fuck_ she was gorgeous when she was pissed off. Maybe that was why he’d always put so much effort into pissing her off. Huh.

Anya shrugged. “Well, there’s all sorts of minor differences, but…”

Buffy cut in impatiently. “What do they look like?”

Anya glared at Buffy in annoyance. “Well, as I was about to say before you interrupted me, they look and taste like regular lobsters for the most part, but you can only really eat the tail. They don’t have the big claws.” She looked sidelong at Xander. “They’re a cost-effective substitute for everyday dining, but not at all acceptable for an anniversary dinner.”

Xander looked sheepish. “Did I mention I was sorry about that?”  

“Do they usually come fifteen feet long?” Buffy chewed on her lower lip.

Anya laughed shortly. “No, they’re usually, you know, single-serving. Not luau-sized.”

“So it was a demon, then.” Buffy glanced over at Spike, eyes resolute. “And we have no idea how many there are, just waiting to pop out for dinner.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, thinking about dessert.

“So let me get this straight,” Xander said oafishly. (Did he ever say anything non-oafishly? Spike was certain he’d never witnessed such a thing.) “The songs are coming true?”

“Sure looks that way. There must be a spell or something.” Buffy’s lip stuck out in a tempting pout. “This is so not fair.”

“I knew these concert tickets were too good to be true,” Xander sighed. “Does everything in our lives come with a side of mystical mayhem? Don’t answer that,” he hastened to add when Spike started to reply.

“Well, Tara and I can do something about the funky B-52s spell,” Willow offered. “Tara’s been doing some really great research on tracking mystical energies.”

“Good call,” Buffy nodded decisively.

“Yeah, better nip that spell in the bud before there’s a Hot Pants Explosion,” Xander grinned, his smile fading a bit when he was met with blank stares. “Am I the only one who researched the discography here?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Anyhow, even if we get the spell taken care of, there’s no guarantee the demon lobsters will disappear. So Spike and I will go check out the beach, see if we can find anything.” That caught Spike’s attention, and he looked at her closely. Was she blushing? Well, well, well. _Sooner_ it was.

“ _Rock_ lobsters, not lobsters” Anya corrected. “They’re not at all equivalent.”

“We’re talking combat here, not _haute cuisine_ ,” Spike snorted, though he caught Buffy’s eye, thinking about feasts.

Anya perked up suddenly. “Ooh, but you know, the luau idea sounds fantastic. I think there’s supposed to be a bonfire later. You could, you know, bring back your kill. Roast it on a spit. Maybe put an apple in its mouth, even.”

Buffy’s lip curled in horrified disgust. “Ew. I’m thinking not.” She shook it off. “Xander, can you and Anya check out the emergency exits? See if you can figure out an evacuation plan. Just in case.”

“Will do,” Xander nodded. “As you know, I am an expert in the fine art of running away.”

“As am I,” Anya chimed in, wrinkling her nose adoringly at Xander, as they shared a loving moment of mutual cowardice.

“Okay.” Buffy took a deep breath. “Let’s get this done fast. I don’t want to miss the whole concert.” She stalked off to the edge of the boardwalk, before glancing over her shoulder. “You coming, Spike?”

He grinned and followed her off into the night. Yeah, he had an idea he would be.

But he had no intention of getting it done _fast_.

Just _soon_.

***

Angel finally had to admit to himself that he was not going to be rescued any time soon, which was kind of annoying. He knew somehow it had to be Spike’s fault that he was still stuck in a giant clam.

Seriously, what the hell was Buffy thinking?

It wasn’t all that long ago that she’d been melting in his hands. Breaking down in front of him when he nobly sacrificed their bright future. And now… Well, he judged that it had been hours – though he couldn’t tell for sure because his fancy watch had demonstrated that it was water-resistant and not, sadly, water _proof_ – which meant the concert had probably started, and if Buffy hadn’t mounted a rescue at this point in the game…. She was probably dancing now at the concert.

Dancing with Spike.

What. The. Hell.

He had let her go for her own good, of course, but he had never thought she would actually, well, _move on_ . He had kind of imagined her… always being there. Sure, she’d done what he’d told her to, found a normal guy to date, but Angel had secretly known he’d still always be first in her heart, like he’d been first in her bed. She’d danced with _him_ at the prom, sweet and romantic, every teenage girl’s dream. Her Rory, or whoever, hadn’t been enough to wipe away the memories of what they’d had.

Well, the memories Angel hadn’t rolled back himself. But that was different.

In any case, Angel had known Buffy and her normal jerk would crash and burn eventually. That was what he’d expected. But tonight, Buffy had been… smiling. Not her weak fake smile either – he had seen that smile enough to recognize it – but a real, honest-to-god, having-fun smile. Showing no burn and showing no pain.

It didn’t feel right. It made Angel feel like a clown, he grudgingly admitted to himself, glaring at the waving sea fans and scurrying crabs.

He blinked. Was that a sea horse?

_Nah. Must be my imagination. Sea horses are tropical._

He went back to remembering Buffy dancing. With him, not Spike.

He didn’t want to picture her doing anything with Spike.

***

Buffy heaved her bag of weapons up more securely onto her shoulder, hoping the clank of iron would get her brain back on task, get it to stop picturing doing things with Spike, but the problem was that she was all revved up now, all ready to get busy with the experimenting. Especially now that Spike had given her a taste. Well, a lot of tastes. A whole smorgasbord of tastes, like going down the counter at Baskin Robbins getting a little pink spoon of everything before making up your mind, and now she was ready to order her 31-scoop sundae and dig in already.

She had stuffed her sandals into her swag bag, which was hanging off her other arm, and the sand was rough against her bare feet, and it was almost like she could feel every grain, all of her nerves were sensitized and on edge.

Ready.

She was ready.

Stupid rock lobsters and stupid song-lyrics-coming-true-spell, making her wait when she’d made up her mind. She hated waiting, trying to figure out if they were going to be invaded by an army of demon Pomeranians named Quiche Lorraine. Or a flock of demon wigs. Though she supposed it could be worse. She could think of a few groups with worse lyrics to have come true than the B-52s’ wacky oeuvre. Black Sabbath. Pink Floyd. Barry Manilow.

It was a good thing they weren’t at a Sesame Street Live production, was all she was saying.

And all this trying to distract herself back _on_ task wasn’t working a damn bit.

Spike was stalking beside her, radiating tension and energy and sex – which she had never thought of as a radiate-y thing, but it sure was tonight – and if she didn’t find something to kill soon, she was just going to jump him right here in the middle of the sandy beach, because she had been waiting _forever_.

He sighed then, gustily, and she flashed him a sidelong glance. “Got a problem?”

He kept walking along beside her, in a way that would have been stompy if they weren’t on sand. “Just ready to kill something.” He looked at her then, eyes narrow. “Unless you’re ready to skip to dessert.”

She was, oh _god_ she was. “No. We have to fight the rock lobsters first.”

“Can’t rightly fight them if they’re not here,” Spike pointed out, breaking into a jog until he was able to step in front of her. Buffy glared at his chest. “I’m here. And so are you.” He took a step closer, and she shivered. “Could find a way to pass the time.”

He leaned in for a kiss, and Buffy tilted her head up to meet him. “We can’t,” she whispered against his lips. “I have a sacred duty.”

“Right,” Spike murmured back, kissing her again, her lips and her chin and starting down her throat.

“We have to keep moving,” Buffy insisted, tugging Spike’s hand up to her breast. Just for a bit. Just while they were talking.

“Oh, we’ll be moving,” Spike grinned into her collarbone. “All sorts of motion, love.”

“Walking,” Buffy revised. “Walk now.”

Spike placed one last kiss at the center of her sternum before stepping away. “All right then,” he said, voice shaking. “We’ll walk.”

And they did, for at least ten feet before Buffy tugged on the sleeve of Spike’s duster, pulling him in for more kissage.

When she came up for air, Spike nuzzled into the crown of her head. “Getting some mixed signals here, pet.”

Buffy pressed her forehead into his chin. “That’s ‘cause I’m all mixy.”

He slid his arms around her. “Gonna make up your mind some time, then?”

“I will,” Buffy said firmly. “I really, really will.” She sighed. “I just wish there’d be… I don’t know. Some sort of sign? Some hint of what the spell’s going to do next?” She shoved Spike away reluctantly. “Until then, we walk.”

She was about to trudge away on patrol, when she saw it, and froze. Spike turned to see what she was looking at, and let out a low whistle.

Buffy tried to rationalize it away, tried to think of a way to explain it in her brain, but there was no getting around it. The songs were all coming true, and… well, there was one song that she supposed couldn’t possibly be avoided, the most B-52s-ish of all B-52s songs ever. She should have known they would find it all along.

It was the Love Shack.

END CHAPTER 12


	14. Chapter 13: Love Shack

The tiny building was the size of an ice cream stand, constructed of rough boards that the salt air had weathered so they looked soft and velvety against the pale sand. The overhanging tin roof, roughly corrugated, was splotched with rust, and the door hung open so they could see into the empty interior. A sign hanging next to the door read “Stay away” in deeply carved block lettering; someone had Sharpied “Fools!” at the bottom of the sign. The weather-beaten porch rails were damp with spray, glittering in the moonlight.

They stared at the wooden building together, barely breathing. Which was business as usual for Spike, of course, but was starting to make Buffy feel a little light-headed. Or maybe that was just because her heartrate had suddenly doubled.

“It’s the Love Shack,” Buffy finally whispered. “The spell made it appear.”

“Huh,” Spike replied intelligently.

Buffy turned to Spike, determination welling up inside her. “I feel a deep, irresistible compulsion to drag you into the Love Shack and…” She swallowed. “Well. _Love Shack_.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “I have the same compulsion, as it happens.”

“If it’s a spell, this compulsion isn’t going to go away. It’s just going to get worse and worse until we… give in.”

“You think it’s a spell?” Spike glared at her.

“Well, probably not,” Buffy admitted. “Because it…” She floundered for a moment, not wanting to tell Spike about her months of erotic dreams. Finally, she sighed. “It isn’t new enough.” She cast him a sultry look, continuing in a low voice. “But if it were, we’d have no choice. No choice but to stop looking for the stupid rock lobster demons and… go in the Love Shack instead.”

“Hmmm.” Spike stepped closer, fingers tracing her hip. “If that were the case, I would have no choice but to take off your dress and your bikini and lick every inch of your delectable body.” He traced the edge of her bikini bottom through the dress, pressing inwards right at her center. “I would be compelled to kiss you right here, over and over and over again, until you were completely satisfied.”

Buffy slid one foot to the side, just enough so that Spike’s fingers could slide between her legs. “I don’t think that would be enough to break the spell,” she gasped. “I think the spell would make me want to take off all your clothes too. And then we would have to… _Love Shack._ ”

“A fiendish spell indeed,” Spike purred, fingers pulsing gently against her. “What do you think it would take to satisfy the spell?”

“I think… I think if we were both satisfied. _Completely_ satisfied, you know? I think then the spell might fade. And then we could get back to the rock lobsters.” Buffy rocked against his hand, wishing the fabric were gone.

“ _Completely_ satisfied? That might take hours.” Spike added his thumb to the mix, unerringly finding the right place to apply pressure.

“It might.” Buffy inhaled sharply, hands flying to Spike’s shoulders before she toppled over. _God_.

Spike took a step closer, spreading his other hand along her ribcage, thumb just barely grazing the side of her breast. “You strike me as the insatiable type.”

Buffy tossed her hair, letting one hand slide down Spike’s chest, toying with his flat nipple through the cotton. “And you seem like you have plenty of stamina.”

Spike shrugged modestly. “In point of fact, I do.”

Buffy had to take a few sharp breaths before she could formulate a reply. “I thought so,” she finally managed.

They stood there for a long minute, pretending that they didn’t know what their wayward hands were doing. Finally, Spike shrugged and stepped away. “Too bad there’s no spell,” he sighed dramatically.

“Yes, it’s a real shame,” Buffy agreed with a shrug, following him.

Spike looked off over the ocean thoughtfully. “Of course, if you and I fucked under the influence of a spell, you might be a wee bit irate when the spell was over. Might pop me in the nose.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Buffy protested, then flushed. “Okay, I probably would. But it’s all hypothetical. There’s no spell on us.”

Spike’s eyes were dark and hooded. “Isn’t there?”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said firmly.

“All right then. Back to business.” Spike was turning away, returning to the path of their hunt, and Buffy watched her hand reach out and catch in the back of his shirt.

“Spike?” she said softly.

“Yes, love?” Spike said with a faint smile over his shoulder.

Buffy tugged gently until he turned to face her, and smiled. “Show me what the fuss is all about.”

He scooped her up like a bride and hurried through the doorway.

***

Buffy vaguely noticed that the interior of the Love shack was dusty and a little splintery, but that didn’t seem nearly as important as the way Spike was kissing her, his hands rough and urgent on her body. There was a moment’s hesitation as his eyes scanned the room, searching, then he swore viciously and just fell back against the wall, his big hands clutching at her thighs.

“What is it with you and walls?” Buffy laughed as he heaved her up to kiss his way down her throat.

“No furniture,” Spike muttered into her collarbone. “Floor’s got sand.”

Even half-crazed with lust, Buffy had to admit that sand and splinters would not go well with their naked agenda, but she was used to improvising, and so she bent the not-crazed half of her brain to the problem. “Towels,” she finally managed. “In the bags.”

“All right then.” Spike kept kissing.

Buffy shoved at his head. “Towels on the ground _now_!” Her own bag was dangling from her arm and she wriggled out of Spike’s grasp so she could dig out the towel and shake it out. It was huge and fluffy and, thankfully, sandless. Laying it on the ground was harder than one would think, though, because the second she turned her back to Spike, he slid up against her, reaching his hands around to cup her breasts, and the way he was rubbing her nipples through the fabric was seriously detrimental to her motor coordination. But she finally managed to flip the towel out to drape on the ground, and sank back against Spike. His chest rumbled with satisfaction and he took her dress in handfuls, tugging it roughly up to her chest and over her head.

His hands settled over the triangles of her top. “God, you’ve been tormenting me with this bikini all day,” he growled into her neck, hands urgent.

“You like it?” Buffy laughed roughly.

“Love it,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to the nape of her neck as he shoved the fabric aside, rubbing her bare nipples hard under his palms. “Love what’s under it more.”

Buffy arched her back, sliding her arms up to hook around his neck. “I thought you were – oh! – supposed to be taking it off,” she gasped.

Spike just laughed, sliding one hand down between her legs to rub her through the damp fabric, his other arm hooking her closer to him. The leather of his duster sleeve was butter-soft against her belly. “I’m a bit occupied, love. Lend a hand?”

Buffy’s hands were shaking, but she managed to slip her hands between her neck and his and untie the string at her nape. When she tucked her arms behind her to reach the tie at her back, Spike swore into her shoulder, edging his free hand back up to possessively grasp one breast, his other hand curving and pressing deeper, and when she set one hand to each hip, tugging the bows undone, he groaned, roughly tossing the scrap of black off to the side and sliding his hand back to run a long stroke through her wetness.

“God, you’re…” Spike’s voice shook and he didn’t finish the sentence, just rubbing and stroking, chin tucked into the crook of her neck, watching his own hand move, and it was wonderful and exciting, but Buffy knew what his hands could do to her already, and she was on a mission here, so she twisted in his arms, shoving his duster off his shoulders and winding her hands into the front of his soft cotton shirt.

Spike’s eyes were dark and unreadable as he lifted his arms overhead, letting her tug the shirt off, but he ducked his head down to kiss her while she was still working the fabric over his hands, and then his hands were free and then around her waist, and she decided shirtless was good enough for now and fell back onto the towel, tugging him down with her.

His lips and tongue and teeth started to work down her body, and she spread her legs wide in anticipation, but he was taking his sweet time, the jerk. He finally made it down to her navel, though, teeth nipping at the soft curve of muscle there, and looked hotly up her body.

“What if we find out it was a spell all along?” he said suddenly.

Buffy wound her hands into his hair, glaring at him. “Did you cast a spell?”

“No,” he laughed shortly, kissing her belly.

“Neither did I,” she said firmly. “And if someone else cast a spell… then it’s not your fault.”

Spike looked away, rubbing his cheek against her skin. “That matters now, does it?”

“It does.” Buffy tugged on his hair until he looked up at her again. “If it is a spell, will you be mad at me?”

Spike’s eyes were unfathomable, and he stilled for a long moment. “No,” he said at length. “Unless we go back to the nose-breaking.”

Buffy traced her fingers in an X on her bare chest, just over her heart. “I promise not to break your nose.”

Spike slid up to kiss the very center of the X before heading south again. “Then I promise to make it worth your while.”

And that was it for the talking; his lips were hard and urgent against her, his hands scooping under her thighs and spreading them wide as he traveled down and down, nibbling at her hip and the inside of her thigh, and finally he scooted all the way down and gave her a long, thorough lick, eyes on hers the whole time.

“Yes,” Buffy moaned, unable to look away. Her hands tangled in his hair, and he laughed against her and curled his hands under her ass and did something with his tongue that was… _god_ , it was… But then he did something else, something even better, and Buffy stopped even trying to think of words to describe it, just opened up to him and watched hazily over her own heaving breasts as he tenderly worshipped her with his wicked, wicked mouth.

Buffy was fairly certain that the Rules decreed that this was the part where she was supposed to just lie back and let herself be pleasured, but her arms and legs were twitching and she needed to do something, she needed to move, and so she curled her feet in to knead at his back, and ran her hands through his hair and over his shoulders and down to tangle with his fingers where they were clutching at her hips, and then she pulled one of his hands up to clasp her breast, her fingers urging his on, and she cupped her own free hand around her other breast, pinching and tugging at her own nipple, and all the while Spike’s tongue was stroking and curling against her, sending shocks of sensation all along her body, and when she came against his lips she let out a little “oh!” of surprise, because it was different, and of course she had known that it had to be different from the ones she gave herself, and from the one earlier on the deck, but she hadn’t really comprehended just how different, how delicious it was to give up control, to let herself be carried along, and Spike swore and doubled down and then she was laughing because she was going to come again, she could feel it building sharply and she arched her head back so she was looking into the dark shadows of the ceiling, the moonlight spilling across her face like water, and when the tremors took her she cried out, reaching down to fit her palm to Spike’s cheek.

He tilted his head to the side and brushed her thumb with his lips, lips that were all wet with _her_. “Had enough?” He caught the pad in his blunt teeth, tugging gently.

Buffy bit her lip, then shook her head. “Unless you want to stop,” she said softly, feeling somehow selfish.

“ _God,_ no,” Spike muttered and bent to her again.

Buffy let her head fall back again, massaging his scalp as his tongue massaged her. “Okay, then,” she gasped happily. “Don’t stop!”

She couldn’t see his mouth, but she could feel him grin against her. “Let’s see how you like this, then.”

_Oh._ She liked it, all right.

She liked it a _lot._

***

Some time later, Buffy had to admit to herself that the rumors had indeed been correct. She got it now. She understood.

She knew what the fuss was all about.

And she decided it was time to return the favor.

She tugged on Spike’s ears until he got the hint and oozed up her body to kiss her, long open-mouthed kisses that tasted like her – and a certain person was _so_ full of shit, because she tasted _magnificent_ – and Buffy smiled up at Spike and slid out from under him and pressed his shoulders back, and he watched her face, eyes sleepy and hot and amused, as she reached down and popped the button on his jeans and impatiently yanked open the zipper and gently wrapped her fingers around his cock.

She felt like she should have some sort of clever bantery come on, a clever quip for the occasion, but as she looked down at Spike’s face, tense with eager anticipation, she couldn’t think of anything, not a single witty word, and so she just kissed him on the forehead and on the nose and the lips and the chin, and then his Adam’s apple and his collarbone, and by then he had figured out what she was up to and was stretching out under her, delving his strong fingers into her hair until she finally reached her destination and just took him into her mouth, cool and hard and silky, and he let out a happy groan, his hands gently stroking, pulling out locks of her hair and rubbing them between his fingers as she tugged his pants down to where he could kick them off.

This was not new to Buffy, she had done it before, of course, and yet it felt new, and she wondered about it as she nipped and sucked and licked at Spike’s cock, listening to him croon and swear and growl as she did whatever she wanted, and that was when she figured it out: that she was doing whatever she wanted, and not once had Spike demanded that she do something differently, harder, deeper; his hand in her hair was gentle instead of firm, caressing instead of guiding, and then she realized that she had been tensing and waiting for the moment when he would ask for more, wrest control from her and start thrusting into her mouth faster and deeper than she wanted, until her eyes were watering and her cheeks were sore and she just wanted it to end – but it didn’t happen, and it didn’t happen, and it still didn’t happen, and then Spike swore and came in her mouth and she realized it wasn’t going to happen, that it didn’t need to happen, that she was still in charge.

And suddenly she wanted to cry, because it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _fair_ that she had gone all this time without having _this_ , and now she had it, but with someone who didn’t love her, someone who couldn’t love her, someone she didn’t and couldn’t love back.

_Could she?_

But then Spike sat up and kissed her, lips tender and fervent, and she stopped thinking again.

She wasn’t satisfied yet.

***

Angel was bored.

He had always considered himself something of a philosopher, taking the time to ponder the deep implications of life and death and destiny, thinking through things before leaping in, unlike some idiots he could mention who happened to have radioactive hair. (Also unlike the love of his life, but it was cute when she did it.) You would think that wafting here under the sea, watching the mesmerizing drift of seaweed, would be an ideal environment for some good old fashioned Deep Thought. He wouldn’t even have to worry about anyone interrupting his brooding with conversation or other demands to be social.

But as it turned out, successful brooding demanded an audience. Someone he could brush off or ignore, to give his thoughts more weight. They weren’t just Lonely Guy Thoughts, then; they were the deep contemplations of a Man, too important to be interrupted by worldly things. Manly Manthoughts.

Yet rejecting the society of others to brood was meaningless if there wasn’t any society to reject. Brooding with nobody to notice was just… sad.

In any case, deep thinking was unsatisfying at the moment, and he had run out of things to think about shallowly, and now he was just… wafting.

Also possibly hallucinating. Was it possible to hallucinate from boredom? Because he could swear he was seeing mermaids. Mermaids waving to mermen, and… no, wait, that was just more seaweed. It was just kind of people shaped. Sexy people shaped. Sexy humanoid seaweed, beckoning alluringly…

Bored. BORED bored bored _bored_.

He’d been staring at the same unchanging vista of sand and seashells and aquatic plants for so long now that he really was starting to see things. He’d look one way, and it would feel like the shells in his peripheral vision were starting to move, just to mess with him. Clam shells clapping, an admiring audience just out of sight. Mussels flexing their… did mussels have muscles? Hmmm. He pondered that for a few moments before deciding it didn’t really matter. They were moving, though, and the fancy that the seashells were in fact watching him… well, it made him feel capable of philosophy again.

He ignored the seashells’ peripheral-vision attempts to get him to be social, and sank once again into Deep Thoughts.

***

Not too far away, the rock lobsters were neither having sex nor engaging in deep philosophical thought.

They were, in fact, preparing for dinner. Which really didn’t require much preparation, when it came right down to it. They really weren’t much for melted butter or béchamel sauce or cutlery or sprigs of rosemary or table manners, or really anything one could conceivably describe as culinary art.

They just needed to go where the food was, and chow down.

And they were almost there.

 

END CHAPTER 13

 


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